Rain, Steam, And Speed
by The Irish Chauffeur
Summary: Summer 1936. A short companion piece to my other stories; set after the events described in "The Rome Express" and before those in "Summer of '39". Over in Ireland young Danny Branson has acquired a sweetheart; while across the sea in England his Aunt Mary is eagerly anticipating a second honeymoon in Scotland. However, nothing is quite what it seems.
1. Chapter 1

**Rain, Steam, And Speed**

Chapter One

"By Yon Bonnie Banks And By Yon Bonnie Braes"

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Dublin, Irish Free State, June 1936.**

On this fine summer's evening, as was often their wont these days, when Tom returned home to Idrone Terrace in Blackrock, after a long day spent in the offices of the Independent on Talbot Street in Dublin, Sybil and he were sitting contentedly together in the shade of the old damson tree down at the far end of the long, narrow, rear garden. Even at this distance from the sea, the raucous cries of the constantly wheeling seagulls and the sound of the waves breaking hard on the shore below the railway line on the other side of the house were clearly audible to the both of them.

On the whole, life was good; exceedingly so, with both Tom and Sybil still as deeply in love as they had been when they married, contented in their respective positions, he at the Independent and she at the Rotunda, and now with four happy, healthy children, the eldest two, Danny and Saiorse, growing up fast, with young Bobby aged nine, not far behind.

"And?" asked Tom with the most indulgent of smiles he could muster.

"And nothing! Other than mentioning her by name, Danny didn't say another word about her," said Sybil breezily. "Honestly, young man, you're more trouble than your two brothers were at your age put together". She smiled indulgently at the little boy now seated on her lap. Young, fair haired Dermot Branson, the latest, and by Tom and Sybil's mutual agreement, the last addition to their family, aged three years old, grinned back at her and then promptly reached for one of the gooseberries which his mother had been topping and tailing and were lying in a bowl on the wicker table beside her.

"Darling, you won't like it. It's sharp and sour".

Unfamiliar with either word, and so completely undeterred by his mother's gentle warning, but also someone who knew his own mind, young Dermot took not the slightest notice, instead crammed the small green fruit into his mouth and began to chew with gusto. A moment later, he spat out the remains of the half chewed gooseberry in disgust and began to wail his discontent.

"There now. What did I tell you?" asked Sybil. "Nasty gooseberry!" She hugged the little boy to her, wiping away his tears and cleaning his mouth and chin with the edge of her apron. "He's so like you, Tom".  
"How so?"  
"He won't ever take no for an answer!"

Tom laughed.

"You think so, for sure?"  
"Believe me, darling, after being married to you for seventeen years, I know so!"

"So, what's her name then?" asked Tom, his eyes sparkling.

"Lady Isabel. Or was it Isabella? Either way, it stuck in my mind because of Matthew's mother".

" **Lady** Isabel?" Tom sounded mystified.

"I think Danny was being facetious; I suspect it was his way of telling Rob that she's rather too full of airs and graces".

"Oh! You mean like you, milady?"

Sybil laughed and dug him hard in the ribs.

"No, not at all like me!"

"Isabella, eh?" Tom mused. "Then perhaps she's Spanish. Or maybe even Portuguese!" He chuckled with obvious delight.  
"Either way, Danny's far too young to have a sweetheart".

"Too young? Darlin', in case you've forgotten, he's sixteen years old. By the time I was his age I'd had several sweethearts, for sure. Not that Ma approved ,of course. Ah, Clontarf in those days was full of colleens with broken hearts, all vying for my favour. Let me see now. There was Mary Mooney - she was the daughter of the local draper. And then there was Jenny Hanlon. Her Da kept a bar on Clontarf Road. And then there was Maggie Byrne, and Josephine Kelly. Why, I'd quite forgotten about her".

"And she you, no doubt!"

Tom laughed while Sybil rolled her eyes in obvious disbelief. She had heard of Mary Mooney and Jenny Hanlon but the other names meant nothing to her at all. Knowing Tom as she did, she thought that there was every chance that he had made the rest of them up out of pure devilment.

"Oh, please! Spare me the lengthy list of all your past amours and conquests, Mr. Branson".  
Tom grinned.

"Actually, it wasn't that lengthy. There were only the two: Mary McGuire and Jenny Hanlon. I'll let you into a secret, Sybil. After that awful business with my cousin Maeve, I was quite shy for sure".

Sybil smiled and gently squeezed his arm.

"That's hardly surprising".

For a moment they sat together in silence.

"And there's something else that isn't surprising too," said Tom.

"Oh, what's that?"  
"That Danny should have found himself a sweet heart!"

Sybil smiled.

"No, I suppose not. He's grown into a very handsome and winning young man".

"Ah, just like his father, to be sure!" sighed Tom. He chuckled.

"You're very full of yourself this evening, Mr. Branson!"

"What man wouldn't be when he has you for his wife?" Tom bestowed an affectionate kiss on her cheek.

"Flatterer!"

"No, just the honest truth me darlin'! So, Isabella then?"  
Sybil nodded her head.

"Apparently. I heard Danny make mention of her to Robert when he was on the telephone to him a few days ago. He said that he was seeing her next week".

"Next week? Listening in, to a private conversation, for sure. Who do you think you are? The Garda?"

"I wasn't listening in. I just merely happened to overhear what he was saying. After all, the telephone is down there on the table in the hall. I was upstairs on the landing sorting out the sheets with Alice and …

"You listened in!" laughed Tom.

"Have it your own way!" Sybil rolled her eyes again.

"I will, for sure. So, he's seeing her next week?"

"Yes"

"Really?"

"I've just said so, haven't I? In any case, you don't sound very surprised. Has Danny said anything about her during one of your lengthy Da and son chats out there in the garage?" Sybil nodded towards the back wall of the garden.  
"To me?" Tom sounded surprised.  
"Yes, that's what I asked you".

"No, not at all. Why, did you think he might?" Shaking his head, Tom stood up; thrust both his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat. "Well, I suppose I'd better go and take another look at that article on Mussolini and Abyssinia. I can't believe that Hoare and Laval could have been so ruddy deceitful. From what Matthew told me the last time we spoke, he's bloody furious about it all. I know too that Friedrich and Edith are very worried ... about what Herr Hitler's latest antics may mean for Austria ... as well as for themselves".

"You don't think they'll have to leave Austria do you?"  
"Maybe".

"Tom, darling, things can't be that serious, surely?"

"I'm afraid they are; even though a very great number of people, including many here in Ireland, prefer to turn a blind eye to what's going on in Europe and don't want to own up to the very real possibility that in the not too distant future there's every chance of there being another war with Germany".

"What about us?"

"Oh, have no fear, darlin', whatever happens, Ireland will stay neutral. De Valera will see to that".

"And Edith?"

"Love, you and I both know that for Edith, nothing, not even Rosenberg is as important to her as Friedrich and their two boys. If anything threatens their safety. she'll see to it that they all leave Austria before any harm comes their way".

"But where on earth would they go?"

"Switzerland probably. I remember Friedrich telling me he had property there. In fact, not far from Geneva. Or maybe even France. There's the château they have on the banks of the Loire. But it hasn't come to that".

"Not yet".

"No, no yet".

"But you think it very well might".

"Yes, darlin', it might," said Tom sadly.

Inwardly, Sybil shuddered at what the future might bring; wondered how she herself would feel if, along with their four children, she and Tom suddenly had to flee Ireland, uprooted from everyone and everything they knew, forced to leave their home and their friends for an uncertain future in a foreign country. Kurt, Edith's youngest, born early in 1933, was almost the very same age as Dermot. With that thought in mind, impetuously Sybil hugged the little boy to her in a sudden and fierce embrace.

"So, what with that jumped up feckin' little corporal on the rampage in Germany, occupying the Rhineland, and now the Italians under Mussolini making mischief by invading Abyssinia, the League of Nations has been made to look absolutely impotent. By the way, Matthew said he would do his very best to see if he could arrange a meeting for me with Haile Selassie when next we're over in England. He met him you know, when he gave that speech to the League in Geneva just last month".

Sybil smiled and nodded her head. Even after all these years, it was a constant source of wonderment to her how Tom always managed to be so very well informed on a whole host of subjects, be it what was taking place here in Ireland, or else further afield in Europe, or even America.

"The exiled emperor?"  
"Yes, that's right. Apparently, he's coming to live in England, although I don't think that's yet common knowledge, so keep it to yourself. Anyway, I suppose I'd better go and make a start for sure". Tom yawned. "Mind you, I could really do with an early night".

"Darling, you try and do too much. What you need is a holiday".

"Do I now?"

"Yes. You know you do".

"Maybe".

"No maybe about it. Anyway before you go, tell me something. Does the name Douglas mean anything to you?" Sybil looked up at him, shading her eyes from the glare of the setting sun.  
"Douglas?"

"Tom!"  
"What?"  
"You're doing it again!"  
"Doing what?"  
"Repeating everything I say".

"No I'm not".

"Yes, you are".

"So, Douglas did you say?" asked Tom cautiously and with a shame-faced grin.  
"Yes".

"No. Why should it?"  
"Probably not, no. But, in her letter, the one that arrived here this morning, Mary made mention of the fact that Matthew's apparently got himself a new chum, a Mr. Douglas. She heard Matthew talking about him to Robert in the Library at Downton but then, when she asked who he was, Matthew suddenly clammed up and became very mysterious".

"Really?"

"Yes, really. And that's the second time you've said that as well. Anyway, Mary has this private notion that after the rough time she had giving birth to little Emily, by way of recompense Matthew's planning to surprise her with a second honeymoon, this time in Scotland. She's terribly excited about it".  
"Scotland?" echoed Tom.

"Tom!"

"But why on earth Scotland?"

Sybil relented and now proceeded to explain.

"Well you know how Mary loves the Highlands, almost as much as did darling Papa. Anyway, Mary thinks this Mr. Douglas must be the same man who was the agent for the Banchory Estate; you know, where Matthew and Mary went to that house party, the year before last, and then there was all the ensuing fuss when Matthew refused to go shooting; said he done with it after what he went through in the war".

Tom nodded. He had never been able to understand the pleasure members of the English aristocracy took in blasting defenceless game birds out of the sky with a battery of shotguns. So he was both admiring and fully understanding of his English brother-in-law's unshakable decision not to take any further part in such a so-called sport.

Tom 's brows puckered. He frowned.

"But surely ... after what happened, Matthew doesn't want to go back there?"  
"No, but while they were staying there, while all the others went shooting, they went out for a drive, and came across the most delightfully secluded hotel".

"If Matthew was driving I'm rather surprised they managed to see anything at all except a blur of passing scenery".

Matthew's love of speed was legendary; it had already got him into several close scrapes round and about Downton, most memorably when many years ago, following Robert's birth, he narrowly averted running full tilt into a snorting traction engine pulling a load of heavy timber somewhere over near West Fell Scar.

"No doubt but it was you who taught him to drive, remember?"

"Yes, well ..."  
"No, yes well, about it. I don't think Mary's ever quite forgiven you".

"Anyway, neither of them could remember the name of the hotel when they were telling us about it all but the setting was rather splendid, next to a waterfall. Mary seems to recall Matthew telling the factor - the agent - about it when they got back to the house. She thinks his name was Douglas. She's of the mind that Matthew's been in touch with this Mr. Douglas to find out what was the name of the hotel. And, what's more, it's quite near Balmoral".

"Balmoral, eh? Sorry!" Tom chuckled.

"Well the Banchory estate is very beautiful and being so close to Balmoral, I expect Mary is hoping very much to catch a glimpse of the ghastly Mrs. Simpson!" Sybil laughed.

"I doubt she'll do that. From what I hear tell, the king and Mrs. Simpson spend most of their time down at Fort Belvedere in Surrey. Besides which no-one in England or for that matter in Scotland is supposed to know anything at all about their romance and, if it wasn't for your mother's friends in America telling your Mama, neither would you!"

* * *

 **Billiards Room, Downton Abbey, England, later that same evening.**

"Cracking shot! Bravo! Well played! You're becoming very good at this, Rob. One day soon and you'll be giving your Uncle Tom a run for his money".

Robert laughed.

"Oh, I don't know about that, father".

"Would you like another brandy?"

Aged fifteen, Robert hesitated; eyed the brandy decanter proffered by his father with some trepidation.

"Thank you, father but ... what would Mama say?"

"A couple of small snifters at your age won't do you any harm. Far better that you learn how to drink in moderation. Besides, what your Mama doesn't know about ..."

"Then, rather!"

"Good man!" Matthew gave his eldest son a conspiratorial wink and promptly refilled the pair of glasses.

"Cheers!"

"Cheers!"

There now followed a moment's companionable silence when neither of them spoke, broken at last by Robert.

"Papa, may I ask you something?"

"Of course. Fire away old chap".

"It's ... personal".

"Oh, well. That's more your Uncle Tom's department rather than mine, don't you know!"

Robert grinned; knowing full well that his father was far more worldly wise than he pretended to be and that his seeming diffidence masked an innate goodness and a kindly nature. Never once, whether on the estate or down in the village, had he heard anyone speak ill of his father. Both tenants and villagers alike knew how approachable his father was and how, over the last fifteen or so years, especially since grand papa died back in '31, the new earl of Grantham had devoted himself to placing the Downton Abbey estate on a secure financial footing. Robert knew too, ever since he had been old enough to take an interest in such people, how highly his father was regarded by those diplomats and politicians who singly or with their wives in tow came here to stay at Downton as house guests of his parents.

"Well, Uncle Tom's not here to ask him and anyway it's not what you think".

"There's a relief. So what ..."

"Is Mama ..."  
"Is Mama what?"  
"Well, is she quite herself?"  
"As far as I'm aware, yes. Why? Whatever makes you ask that?"  
"Well, she seems to be in a very good mood. She certainly was earlier this evening at dinner".  
"Was she? I can't say that I noticed particularly. Then again, I suppose I was thinking rather more about the repairs due to the roofs of that row of cottages down in the village opposite the parish church".

Robert smiled; trust his father not to have noticed.

"And then yesterday afternoon, when I was going upstairs to fetch my cricket bat for a round of practice with Simon, I heard her singing as she crossed the gallery".

"Blimey! Singing? In public? Why the last time I heard your mother doing anything like that ... it was during the Great War". Matthew laid down his cue on the edge of the table as an image formed in his mind of both himself and poor William, Private Mason as he then was, God rest him, coming back from the Western Front here to Downton in 1916 to find, with Edith seated at the piano, Mary in full voice, entertaining the troops in the Music Room. A lifetime ago. Robert's voice broke in upon his thoughts.

"Mind you, it was what she was singing that surprised me most".

"Good God, it wasn't one of the ditties on those postcards you and Simon brought back from Scarborough last year, was it?" Even though he was obviously speaking in jest and that they were here in the Billiards Room, on the far side of the house, and so, hopefully, away from prying ears at keyholes, Robert noticed that his father had lowered his voice considerably and was speaking in a hushed tone.  
"No, father. Nothing like that".

Robert flushed at the memory his father's words had evoked.

* * *

That handful of saucy seaside postcards which he and Simon had purchased surreptitiously when they were in Scarborough staying with a school friend last July and had then hidden in the bottom of the old washstand in the disused day nursery here at Downton, intending to show them to Danny when the Bransons came over for their customary stay in the summer had caused him and his brother no end of trouble. Quite how it was that they had then come to be found lying on the table in the hall by one of the housemaids, Robert never found out. He thought that creep Barrow might have had a hand in it but of course he couldn't prove it. Of course, predictably, Mama had been horrified.

Standing, embarrassed, in front of the fireplace in the Library, with their hands held meekly behind their backs, the two boys had been subjected to one of their mother's famous tirades. It was almost as if between them he and Simon had somehow contrived to bring down the British Empire.

"... and this, of course, is what comes of sending the boys to a school here, in Yorkshire. If you'd listened to me and sent them away to Harrow like their grandfather as I asked you to, then none of this ..."

"Mary, boys will be boys, wherever they go to school".

"Is that all you can say? Honestly Matthew, at times you can be so middle class!"

* * *

"What then?"

Robert looked nonplussed.

"I don't quite follow ..."  
"What was Mama singing?"

"That Scottish tune, the one she likes so much ... By Yon something or other".  
"By Yon Bonnie Banks And By Yon Bonnie Braes".

"Yes, that was it".

"Now why on earth would she be singing that?"

Robert shrugged.

"Search me!"

* * *

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, slightly earlier that same evening.**

When he left Sybil, Tom went straight back up to the house but then, making sure he wasn't being observed, either by Saiorse who was somewhere about or by Bobby who was listening to Radio Athlone in the kitchen, instead of going up to his study, Tom went along the tiled hallway, out of the front door, and down the steps. Outside the gate he turned to his left, walked down Idrone Terrace, turned left up Bath Place, and then left again onto the dirt track that ran along behind the terrace of houses.

A short walk brought Tom to the rear gate of his own garden and where, over the wall, unobserved by her, he could hear Sybil still chatting away to little Dermot. Crossing quietly to the other side of the track, Tom made his way over to the brick outbuilding which doubled both as a garage for the family motor, a maroon and black Morris Eight and which Tom kept so highly polished that it positively gleamed, and a workshop for himself, and where he stored his beloved motor bike, although at the moment, that was conspicuous by its absence. Still keeping out of sight, going in through the rear of outbuilding, Tom heard the clatter of something metallic, followed by a loudly mouthed expletive:

" **Feckin hell**!"

Hearing the door open and then the sound of approaching footsteps, dressed in dirty, grey overalls and wearing a pair of black hobnailed boots, his face smeared with oil, Danny slid out from beneath the Morris where he had been working on one of the drum brakes.

"Sorry, Da!"  
"Oh don't mind me!" Tom waved him into silence. "It's your Ma who doesn't approve of swearing. How are you getting on?"

"I'm not".

"Do you want me to take a look?" asked Tom unbuttoning his waistcoat and rolling up his sleeves.  
"If you don't mind?"

"Mind? Of course I don't mind for sure. Or are you forgetting that I was once a chauffeur for your grandpapa?"

Danny smiled. The oft told story of his beloved Da's courting of Ma when she was Lady Sybil Crawley, the third and youngest daughter of the earl and countess of Grantham, and when Da was but the family's chauffeur, had long since passed into the annals of Branson family history.

Danny nodded.

"No, I haven't forgotten for sure".

It was almost as if Da had been reading his thoughts.

"Your Ma and I did much of our courting in a place very much like this. You know - the old garage at Downton".

Again Danny nodded, smiled happily as he watched his father take in the familiar surroundings; in particular, the wooden work bench with its neatly ordered assortment of tools. Saw his father's eyes alight on the framed photograph hanging on the brick wall above and which showed a man in uniform sitting astride a powerful motorbike, a Brough Superior SS100.

"Your Aunt Edith met him you know, when she was out in the Near East".

"Yes, I remember you telling me".

"It was kind of him to send me that photograph".

"Yes, it was".

"Such a bloody waste; I mean, to die like that, after all he'd been through".

Danny nodded; knew that his father had been a great admirer of T. E. Lawrence, better known to one and all as "Lawrence of Arabia" and who had been killed in a motorbike accident the previous year, when he swerved to avoid two boys skylarking about on their bicycles on a quiet country lane in Dorset, over in England.

Danny now eyed his father's clothes.

"What?"

"Hadn't you'd better wait while I'll fetch you a clean pair of overalls? You know what Ma will say if you don't put them on!"

Tom grinned and nodded his head.

" ** _Do your own bloody washing, Mr. Branson!_** Very well. If you must".

"It's you I'm thinking of Da!"

"I don't know why your Ma makes such a fuss. A little bit of grease never hurt anyone," grumbled his father good naturedly.

"I suppose it's something to do with her being a matron at the hospital. Cleanliness is next to godliness or some such tommyrot!"

"Before you do, there's something that we need to discuss".

"Oh. What's that for sure?" asked Danny nervously.

"Lady Isabella?"  
"What about her?"

"The other evening, Ma overheard you make mention of her, when you were on the telephone to Rob".

"Cripes! That's rather torn it!" Tom smiled. If his nephew Rob had acquired a fine command of Irish invective from his cousin, then in return Danny had picked up a goodly smattering of colloquial English.

"Not necessarily. Ma thinks she's an aristocratic young lady!"  
Danny grinned.

"Does she now? Well, I suppose, in a way she is. Although at eighty two, she can hardly be described as young for sure!"

His father chuckled.

"Well, don't say anything unless you have to but if your Ma asks you, just play along. Let her believe what she will. I'll be telephoning Uncle Matthew from the office tomorrow to confirm all the arrangements. And now I also need to warn him that your Aunt Mary thinks he's planning on taking her on a second honeymoon to Scotland".

"Scotland?"

"Oh, don't you start for sure".

"Start what?"  
"Never mind. Your aunt overheard Uncle Matthew talking to Rob about **Mr.** Douglas".

" **Mr.** Douglas? Who on earth's he?"

Tom grinned.

"Well, son, your Aunt Mary thinks he's the land agent for a large estate up in Scotland. The thing is, you and I both know that he isn't".

"I don't quite understand ..."  
"Yes, you do. Think about it. Lady Isabella, Douglas ..."

A moment later, the penny dropped, and Danny's still cherubic features spread into the widest of grins.

"Poor Aunt Mary!"  
Tom smiled.

"I rather think it will be a case of _poor Uncle Matthew_ when Aunt Mary finds out that **Mr.** Douglas doesn't even exist and that your uncle has no intention whatsoever of taking her to Scotland!"

"Crikey!"

Tom nodded.

"Crikey for sure!"

 **Author's Note:**

The title of this story is that of a famous painting by the English artist J. M. W. Turner (1775-1851) while the title of the chapter is the first line of the well-known traditional Scottish song, _The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond_.

Samuel Hoare was the British Foreign Secretary and Pierre Laval the Prime Minister of France. In December 1935 they had proposed, in secret, a partition of Abyssinia which would have given the Italian dictator Benito Mussolini what he wanted and have turned the country into an Italian colony. While this was never actually put into effect, in the long run it made no difference, as the Italians invaded and then occupied Abyssinia in May 1936.

In a speech, considered by many to be among the most stirring ever made in the twentieth century, Haile Selassie (1892-1975) Emperor of Abyssinia (Ethiopia) did indeed make an impassioned plea for help for his beleaguered country before the assembled members of the League of Nations in Geneva in May 1936.

At this time, while newspapers in both America and Europe reported what was going on, the British press adhered strictly to a self-imposed news blackout regarding the on-going romance between Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson. Not until December 1936 did the story of their affair become public knowledge in Great Britain.

At the time of the story, Radio Athlone, the successor to 2RN, was the name of the Irish Free State's only radio station.

Mystery still shrouds the death of T. E Lawrence in May 1935. While it may have been just a tragic accident, there are those who believe it was something rather more sinister.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

A Conspiracy Is Unmasked

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Irish Free State, afternoon, Thursday, 11th June 1936.**

Holding Dermot tightly by the hand, together they slowly walked the short distance back up to the house from the railway station in Blackrock, to where she had taken little boy to watch and wave to the passing trains, with Sybil deep in thought.

There was no denying it. Tom and Danny were up to something. Like Matthew and Tom when they were together over at Downton, here in Blackrock, the more so as Danny grew to manhood, with his burgeoning interest in all things mechanical, he and his father were well nigh inseparable.

Even so, what had alerted Sybil first to the fact that something was going on had been the saga of the kippers and then, as if any further proof was needed, the telegram, which had arrived here late this afternoon, all the way from Austria, addressed to both Mr. and Mrs. T. Branson, in itself a minor thing, but which, even after all these years, seeing their names conjoined together on something as mundane as an envelope, still gave Sybil a pleasing frisson of delight.

As to the kippers, while Tom often cooked breakfast for himself before leaving for the office, preferring to do so rather than risk one of Sybil's burnt offerings, he always did bacon and eggs, which Sybil would have been the first to admit both smelt and tasted delicious. This morning however, as she had made her way downstairs, yawning repeatedly, after working a late shift the previous day at the Rotunda, a different aroma assailed the nostrils of the lady of the house: that of kippers, which Tom had never cooked before. That Sybil recognised the smell immediately was hardly surprising with kippers having been served at Downton when she was a little girl. Not that either of her sisters or she herself had cared for them until years later when Mary had been expecting Robert and had developed an insatiable craving for the smoked fish.

Pushing open the kitchen door, which always squeaked, even though she was befuddled with sleep, Sybil caught the tail end of the conversation which Danny, seated at the kitchen table in his vest and pajama bottoms, was having with his father and who was standing barefoot, in front of the gas stove, in just shirt and trousers, braces dangling.

"Will I like them, for sure?"

"Son, you'll never know if you like something or not until you've tried it. They're very popular on the ... Oh, morning, love". Tom gave Sybil a perfunctory peck of a kiss. "I'm cooking kippers," he said shyly, as if an explanation of what he was doing was somehow required.

"So I can see. Why not bacon and eggs?"  
"Oh, a change is as good as a rest," said Tom airily.

* * *

 **Croydon Airport, London, England, Sunday, 14th June 1936.**

Having been cruising at an altitude of nearly 12,000 feet and at speed of just over 100 mph, the enormous Junckers G.38, its tail fins emblazoned with swastikas, banked heavily through the sudden squall of rain and began its final descent through the clouds to Croydon Airport. With an unrivalled view through the glass windows directly in front of him of all that had happened since the huge aeroplane had taken off from Berlin's Tempelhof Airport just over five hours previously, seated in one the two seats in the nose of the aeroplane, with his blue eyes glistening, alight with excitement, the young, sandy haired boy now turned to his father.

"Papa, this has been the best birthday ever!"

"I'm very glad that you're enjoying it" said his father, smiling fondly at his son's youthful exuberance. "Not long now until we land and then, once we're through customs, we'll take the train directly up to London".

"Is that where you're giving your lecture?"  
"Yes, tomorrow afternoon, at the British Museum".  
"Where are we staying tonight, Papa?"  
"At the Russell Hotel, in Bloomsbury; Mama and I stayed there once, a long time ago, before either you or Kurt were even born; it's not far from the museum".

Max nodded, then grimaced at the heavy droplets of rain as they drove hard against the glass, momentarily obscuring the view.

"Papa?"  
"Yes?"

"Does it really always rain here in England?"

His father smiled at him.

"I'm sure that your darling Mama would tell you that it does. So, in answer to your question, Max, yes, a very great deal".

"Papa?"  
"Yes?"

"Is everything all right?"  
"Of course it is, why do you ask?"

"Well, earlier, this afternoon, when we took off from Berlin, you were very quiet".  
"Was I?"  
"Yes".

"Well, I was probably thinking about my lecture, running through in my mind all that I am going to say tomorrow. There will be a large number of professors both from Oxford and from Cambridge in the audience tomorrow, so you see, I must be word perfect and not make any mistakes".

"Don't worry father. I'll be there too!"  
"Yes, I know you will; there's seat reserved for you in the front row of the lecture theatre!"

"Oh!" Max grinned broadly.

"And then ..."  
"And then what, father?"  
"Wait and see!"

Friedrich smiled fondly at his thirteen year old son and gently ruffled his hair as the huge aeroplane now commenced its final approach to the distant, grass runway.

* * *

Given the ever precarious state of Max's health, Edith had been extremely nervous about letting him make this trip over to England at all but, since their stay with the Bransons and the Crawleys at the Villa San Callisto some four years ago, both his parents had agreed that there was absolutely no use wrapping the boy up in cotton wool. What would be, would be. And if, as seemed likely, Max would not live beyond his twentieth birthday, then both Friedrich and Edith were firmly of the opinion that, as far as he could, Max should be allowed to live his life to the full. Fortunately so far, this long trip, first by train from Vienna's Westbahnhof, via Prague in what was now Czechoslovakia, to the Anhalter Bahnhof in Berlin, and thereafter by aeroplane from Tempelhof airport over to Croydon in England, while tiring for Max, had proved completely uneventful.

Not that Friedrich had been entirely honest with him over why it was he had been so quiet. That he had been running through what he was going to say in the lecture that he was giving tomorrow afternoon at the British Museum was true enough. However, Friedrich was a seasoned enough speaker, as well as an expert in his own particular field - the excavations at both Nineveh and Ur which, in the company of other archaeologists, among them the Christies and Sir Charles Wooley, both he and Edith had undertaken together - not to be worried by the distinguished credentials of the eminent members of his largely academic audience.

No, if the truth be told, what had worried Friedrich more than he cared to say was what he seen while they were en route to their hotel from the railway station and thereafter from a bedroom window of the magnificent Hotel Adlon, where he and Max had spent the previous night, and which stood opposite the Brandenburg Gate, overlooking the Pariser Platz, and the Unter den Linden in Berlin.

* * *

 **Hotel Adlon, Berlin, Germany, Saturday, 13th June 1936.**

Having telephoned Edith at home at Rosenberg in Austria and so set her mind at rest that all was so far well, with dinner having been served to them in their room, then with some difficulty having persuaded an excited young Max to go to bed where at length he had at long last finally drifted off to sleep, for a long while thereafter his father had stood gazing pensively out of the window of their fourth floor floor suite.

Beyond the windows of the hotel, Berlin was lit up in a blaze of electric lights. Even at this late hour, down below him on the once leafy Unter den Linden, Friedrich could see that the wide boulevard, like the entrance to the wooded Tiergarten was thronging with people; crowded with pedestrians. No doubt the same was true of all the other main thoroughfares of the city; as well as the vast squares such as Pariser Platz on one corner of which stood the Adlon itself, flanked by the American and French embassies and the Academy of Arts. The sprawling, vibrant city was truly en fete, and with one very good reason.

In less than two months' time, the Olympic Games would open here in Berlin and it was obvious to Friedrich, as it would have been to any other onlooker who shared his liberal politics, that the Nazis were doing their utmost to present to the watching world the image of a new, strong, and united Germany; while at the same time masking the regime's antisemitic and racist policies. To this end almost all anti-Jewish signs had disappeared from the city's streets and, leafing through the German newspapers down in the hotel lobby when he and Max had arrived, it was equally clear to Friedrich that their editors had been instructed to tone down their hitherto virulent anti- Jewish rhetoric; that every effort was being made to present foreign journalists, spectators and visitors attending the Games with the wholly false picture of a peaceful, tolerant Germany.

In this same regard, no expense had been spared. Some five miles west of the capital, the Nazis had built a huge sports arena, on the very same site that had been chosen for the Olympic Games of 1916, but which had never been held because of the outbreak of the Great War; the centrepiece of which was a gigantic stadium built of natural stone which could seat 110,000 spectators.

Now, in whichever direction Friedrich looked, as indeed had been the case when they had been driven here from the railway station, whether up or down the Unter den Linden, or simply across the square, he saw yet more public buildings, monuments, and private houses all bedecked as elsewhere both with Olympic flags and draped with huge swastikas; the latter seeming to predominate, evidence if any other was needed that the Nazis intended to make use of the forthcoming Games as a showcase for their regime.

Yet, beyond all the flags, the bunting, the colourful posters, and the pages and pages devoted to the Olympics in German magazines, where appeared images based on the entirely false premise of there being a link between Nazi Germany and Ancient Greece, thus implying that German civilization was the rightful heir of classical antiquity, there was no escaping the fact that since April 1933 an "Aryans only" policy had been instituted in all German athletic organizations. And all "non-Aryans" had been excluded from using German sports facilities, among them the German Boxing Association's amateur champion, Erich Seelig, expelled simply because he was Jewish.

Thoroughly depressed by what he had seen and witnessed, Friedrich quietly closed the window and readied himself for bed.

* * *

On the far side of the Pariser Platz, the black uniformed officer of the SS now likewise turned away and, with the door having been opened for him, climbed into the rear seat of the waiting motor; told his driver to take him to the Reich's Main Security Office on Prinz-Albrecht Strasse not far from Potsdamer Platz. Of course, had it not been for that unfortunate incident some years earlier, he would have been perfectly able to drive himself there to his meeting with Reichsfuhrer Himmler.

But, following that encounter, in an attic room on the Ponte Vecchio in distant Florence, he had never quite fully regained the use of his left arm.

* * *

 **Estate Office, Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England, Thursday morning, 11th June 1936.**

It was with a renewed sense of both disbelief and wonderment that, for the umpteenth time this morning stretching languidly, then scratching his head, Matthew Crawley sat back in his swivel chair in the Estate Office here at Downton and once more contemplated the calendar standing before him on his desk.

No, today was definitely a Thursday: 11th June 1936 to be precise, which meant that yesterday ... had been a Wednesday. Nor had it been his birthday. And yet, last night ... as well as earlier this morning ... Or had it all been just a dream, albeit one that had been both vivid and sensuous?

Correction, extremely vivid and very sensuous.

At the remembrance, Matthew smiled broadly: no, it had definitely not a dream, for, on catching sight of his bare back in his dressing room mirror earlier this morning, it looked like he had been in a fight with an otter. Not that he had of course. But the sight of those scratches had served to provide him with the raw, physical evidence that what could otherwise have been explained away as nothing more than a pleasurable dream, had indeed actually taken place. Where, in one of many moments of shared ecstacy as she writhed beneath him in their bed last night and again earlier this morning, Mary's long, beautifully manicured nails had repeatedly raked his skin. Matthew smiled again; that he was capable of inspiring such abandoned, wanton behaviour in the aristocratic and refined Lady Mary Crawley was a source of wonderment.

Nonetheless, however pleasurable last night's unexpected bedsport had been, it did not help him with the seemingly intractable problem of how, given the geographic nature of the terrain, both a mains water supply and mains drainage could be installed up at Lower Woodseaves Farm.

Of course Matthew was well aware that something had to be done. Citing the provisions of the Local Government Act of 1894, as amended by the provisions of the Local Government Act 1929, the democratically elected - something they were repeatedly at pains to point out and so thereby attempting to claim the moral high ground over the **unelected** earl of Grantham - members of the local Rural District Council had made their position on the matter very clear. Mains water and mains drainage to be installed up at Lower Woodseaves Farm within the next six months otherwise they would serve a Statutory Notice condemning the property as unfit for human habitation. The august guardians of public health had the earl of Grantham over the proverbial barrel and, what was more infuriating, they knew it.

At this precise moment it was now that the telephone on his desk rang, thus disturbing Matthew's concentration on the matter in hand as he pondered the various options open to him regarding how best to proceed. The situation seemed intractable, the more so since not only did Matthew have to contend with the local Rural District Council breathing down his neck but also with the tenant of Lower Woodseaves himself; old Wilf Scaife, who aged eighty four, now left most of the running of the farm to his two sons and grandson.

Wilf had confided in Matthew that he had drunk water from the well in the yard, had used the earth closet out back "ever since he were a lad", saw no earthly reason to change the habits of a lifetime, and at the end of last month had seen off the latest meddling delegation from the Rural District Council at the end of a twelve bore.

"Crawley," Matthew barked somewhat rather more peremptorily than he had intended..

"Who rattled your cage, for sure?" asked the familiar sounding Irish voice at the other end of the line.

"Tom! Good to hear from you old chap! Sybil and the children ..."  
"They're all fine, thank you for asking. And while I think of it, Sybil received Mary's letter yesterday. Dermot's cutting another tooth and having a bad time of it too, poor little lad. Driving the pair of us to distraction. Still, you know the drill ..."  
"Not exactly, old chap. As a fully paid up member of what down at the Grantham Arms you once charmingly described as the "decrepit aristocracy", I kept well out of all that with our three eldest. So did Mary. And we're doing exactly the same with Emily. Leaving everything in the more than capable hands of Nanny Bridges!"

"No such luck this end, old boy. Us t'ick oirish micks have to shift for ourselves!" chuckled Tom.

"By the way, I feel I should warn you that after dinner last night, Rob gave me a very good game. You'll need to watch your step. He'll be giving you a run for your money the next time you're all over, if not before". Matthew heard Tom laugh.

"Well, in you he's had a very good teacher, for sure".

"Thanks for that. I'm assuming that all is still on for our little ..."

"Yes, everything's fine and dandy on that score. No worries for sure. What's more, Ellis telephoned to let me know that the 'bike's arrived safely too".

"I'm very glad to hear it".

"So, all things being equal, we'll see both you and Rob as arranged for sure on the 17th".

"Yes of course. Anyway, while it's always a pleasure to hear from you, old chap, what's prompted you to call?"

"I told you Sybil received Mary's letter?"

"Yes, you did. And?" From his tone, Matthew sounded thoroughly mystified.  
"Well, that's what I'm telephoning about. You see the thing is, old chap ..."

* * *

Immediately after Tom had rung off, taking out his pocket book from the inside of his jacket, and which he carried with him everywhere he went, Matthew reached promptly for the telephone and when Mrs. Jones down at the telephone exchange in the village answered, then asked to be put through to a number in Banchory in distant Scotland.

* * *

 **Estate Yard, Downton Abbey afternoon, Thursday 11th June 1936.**

On this bright summer's afternoon, her cheeks rosy, her hair windblown, her hacking jacket, jodphurs, and boots splattered with mud, yet for all that well pleased with herself, riding astride her mare, Juniper a four year old, sixteen hand chestnut thoroughbred, with a broad white blaze and three matching stockings, Mary, countess of Grantham, clattered into the cobbled stable yard at Downton.

While some years earlier, Mary had been more than a little scandalised by a photograph taken of Friedrich and Edith at one of their interminable digs somewhere out in the Near East, in which Edith was wearing a pair of riding breeches, these days, Mary had to admit that riding astride instead of side saddle, and attired as she was today instead of wearing a cumbersome skirt, made things so much easier.

Even in 1936, opinions among Mary's own class were still fiercely divided. Should female riders wear the traditional sidesaddle habit, or should they embrace the new and modern practice of wearing jodhpurs and ride astride? Mary smiled. Riding astride to hounds over at Garston Hall the previous year, she had encountered old Major Lloyd, a red-faced veteran of the Boxer Rebellion of 1900 in far distant China who, when confronted by the sight of Mary riding astride, had almost burst a blood vessel.

Happy to hack alone or in company, Juniper had never bucked or bolted. Indeed, she had only reared the once when Mary was saddling up, and Matthew had roared unannounced into the stable yard in that blasted green Riley which he had purchased just this year; partly as a result of both he and Tom, with Danny and Robert in tow, having gone over to Switzerland, to Bremgarten, for the Swiss Grand Prix in September 1935.

While thoroughly enjoyed by all four of them, their Swiss jaunt had been very much overshadowed by the fact that young Max who, along with his father, had also been expected to attend, was, as a result of a fall, then seriously ill in Austria. While Max eventually made a full recovery, he had been almost inconsolable at having missed the opportunity of meeting up again with both of his much loved cousins.

* * *

Juniper was an excellent all rounder, brave and bold to any fence, as well as over both water and ditches, and Mary had ridden her to hounds for the past three seasons. So, this afternoon, within sight of the great house, on the edge of Hunters' Wood, in an exuberant mood, Mary had set the chestnut at the five bar gate beside the copse at a gallop. Juniper had sailed over it with the greatest of ease and it was this feat which had put Mary in such a very good mood.

Sadly, while Matthew himself was a perfectly competent horseman, he did not share his wife's love of riding, and in any event the demands of the estate took up most of his time, so that the opportunity for a joint leisurely ride around the estate was never really an option; not even if it might lead to other equally pleasant opportunities as had happened several years ago on the floor of the ruined cottage in Skirmish Spinney - so named from an encounter which was reputed to have taken place there in the seventeenth century between Royalists and Parliamentarian troopers during the English Civil War.

It was during the occasion of that much more recent and far more enjoyable encounter in Skirmish Spinney between Matthew and herself that Mary believed little Emily Crawley, now aged just over two, had been conceived. Maybe, as she grew older, Emily would come to share her aristocratic mother's passion for riding. For, so far, of her three other children, while Mary herself had taught Robert how to ride, some years ago, while still a boy he had refused point blank to ride to hounds anymore, and now rarely ever rode at all. Simon had always been terrified of horses and, as for Rebecca, now aged eleven, she had shown but a sporadic and desultory interest in learning how to ride. Ever the tomboy, if given half a chance Mary knew that Rebecca would have much preferred to emulate her Uncle Tom, learn the workings of a car, and spend her time repairing the family's motors.

* * *

Slipping down from the glossy back of the mare, with the delightful prospect of a trip to Scotland in the offing, in an excellent mood, Mary blithely tossed the reins to the stable lad and then wandered across the yard over to the Estate Office, resigned to finding Matthew seated at his desk immersed in whatever was the latest problem affecting the smooth running of the estate.

Yesterday it had been the pigs: the continuing difficulties of persuading the Bilsdale Blue boar Marmaduke to mate with either of the two sows, Beatrice and Victoria, whose names Mary thought to be entirely unsuitable but which had been bestowed upon them by the children when they were younger. Seemingly unaware as to the singular unsuitability of discussing such a matter, especially with Robert, Simon, and Rebecca seated at the dining table, the more so after that disgraceful episode involving **THOSE** postcards from Scarborough, Mary had been aghast when Matthew had postulated both at length and indeed in some detail as to just what might be done to persuade dear old Marmaduke to do his duty.

* * *

However, on opening the door of the Estate Office and stepping inside, Mary was rather surprised to find it empty, with no sign of its usual occupant. Like darling Tom, Matthew was very methodical in his habits - a place for everything and everything in its place.

Perched on the edge of the desk, Mary began to skin through the diary which Matthew kept about matters appertaining to the estate. She would be the first to admit that Matthew had a far better grasp of what was required to keep Downton on an even keel and in profit, something which had eluded dear Papa, devoted as he had been to the estate and its tenantry.

It was as she skimmed through the diary that she came across a slip of paper, torn from the pocket book that Matthew habitually carried with him when out and about around the estate and in which he jotted down matters which attracted his attention. However, this entry was nothing like that:

 **Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool**

 **Mona, 11.15 16th June**

Mary glanced at the calendar on the desk. Why, that was next week!

Thunderstruck, slumping down hard into the old swivel chair which Matthew had brought here from his solicitor's office, the chair living up to its name and spinning her round like a whirling dervish, once more facing the desk, Mary contemplated the note afresh.

It could only mean one thing: Matthew, who during the past couple of months had paid several visits to Liverpool, on estate business, was conducting an affair. And, given the fact that the Adelphi was the most luxurious hotel in Liverpool, it was obvious that he was sparing no expense in spoiling the hussey who, by her very name, was obviously no better than she ought to be.

While the physical side of their marriage had always been more than satisfactory, although perhaps not as adventurous as that of Tom and Sybil, save for the silly business of the Comtesse de Roquebrune back in 1932, and which had all been a misunderstanding on Mary's part, Matthew had never given her any cause to doubt him.

But no longer.

Mary's dark head reared and her brown eyes glittered. Knowing how much Matthew confided in Tom, doubtless he knew all about the affair too. How positively mortifying!

* * *

The door now opened and a moment later, all unsuspecting, Matthew himself strolled blithely into the Estate Office.

"Hallo! What on earth brings you down here?" he asked affably.

Mary said nothing. Instead, all thought of Scotland forgotten, she skimmed the note across the desk.

"I think you owe me an explanation," she said coldly.

* * *

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, Irish Free State, late afternoon, 11th June 1936.**

Hearing Tom come in, Sybil called out to him that she was in the kitchen. A moment later and he came through into the back smiling broadly on seeing her seated at the table with young Dermot on her lap; the little boy gurgling his delight at the sight of his father. Before her on the table lay the opened telegram and which, without any further ado, Sybil now proceeded to read out aloud.

 **REMEMBER WHAT MATTERS MOST IS TAKING PART.**

 **WITH EVERY GOOD WISH FOR 19TH JUNE EDITH**

"So, just what exactly is going on?"

 **Author's Note;**

Opened in March 1920, Croydon was London's first airport. Flights to Templehof in Berlin began in 1923.

No wonder Max is so excited. For a time, the Junckers G.38 was the largest plane in the world. While it only carried thirty four passengers, by modern standards, accommodation on board was absolutely luxurious, designed to rival that provided by the Zeppelin airships.

Opened in 1898, the magnificent Russell Hotel still overlooks the square of the same name in Bloomsbury, London.

Largely destroyed in the final days of the Second World War, the Hotel Adlon in Berlin, which opened in 1907, was one of Europe's finest hotels. The current hotel, built on the same site, and which externally resembles the original, opened in 1997.

Clearly Marmaduke could not be persuaded to do his duty. The Bilsdale Blue breed of pigs became extinct in 1973.

The Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool opened in 1914.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Boys Will Be Boys

 **Idrone Terrace, Blackrock, late afternoon, 11th June 1936**

Shamefaced, clearly embarrassed, standing beside the dresser in the kitchen, Tom did his very best to try and look both meek and contrite.

"I suppose I owe you an explanation, me darlin'," he drawled softly.

"You're damned right, Mr. Branson. You do!" snapped Sybil. Unaccustomed but rarely to hearing his mother raise her voice, assuming that somehow he himself must have done something terribly wrong, little Dermot began to wail.

"There! Now look what you've gone and done!"

" **Me**?"

"Yes, you!"

"But I didn't do a damned ..."

For the present, Sybil chose to ignore both Tom's indignant protest and also the man himself; instead she hugged little Dermot tightly to her.

"It's all right, darling. Ma's not angry with **you** , sweetheart. Ma's angry with your Da! You're a good little boy. Unlike some I could mention!" At this utterance Sybil shot Tom a hurt, reproachful, reproving look while, turning his little head, young Dermot now regarded his Da with wide-eyed, open-mouthed amazement, for here it seemed was a new and startling concept: that Ma got angry with Da.

* * *

With Bobby being given a piano lesson by old Miss Moore and Saiorse having tea with a school friend, Mary O'Connor, the only other member of the Branson family who was somewhere about the place was Danny. And, it was now, singularly unaware of what was happening, that at this very moment, with his face streaked with sweat, dressed in his boots and dirty overalls having been working on the Morris over in the garage, Danny chose to come in through the back door from the garden, and so made a spectacularly singularly ill-timed entry into the kitchen. On catching sight of his father, Danny broke into a broad grin.

"Ma! Da! I've managed to sort out the problem with the leaf spring".

Too late, now realising that he had blundered into one of those comparatively rare occasions when his much loved parents were at loggerheads over something or other, Danny paused in mid sentence, fell silent, and instead remained standing exactly where was in the open doorway.

Sybil spun round on her chair, taking in the dirty, dishevelled state of her eldest son at which point Danny unwisely made to move forward into the kitchen.

"Don't even think about it, young man! Danny, how many times have I told you, about taking off your boots before coming inside the house? I don't want half the bloody yard in here! Alice washed the floor this morning and I don't intend doing it all again. If **you** want to, then the mop and bucket are out there in the scullery".

"Sorry, Ma!"

When Ma was on the warpath, Danny knew it was best not to risk riling her any further. So now, like his Da, equally shamefaced Danny knelt down meekly on the doorstep and began untying the laces of his boots. At the same time he shot his father a sympathetic, questioning look, followed by a grin, which did not go unnoticed by Sybil who, on seeing the state of Danny's hands, returned to the fray.

"And then it's straight upstairs and into the bath for you, my lad! Plenty of soap and water, mind you get rid of all that oil and grease, and be sure you don't leave any dirty marks on the enamel like you did the last time!"

"Oh, Ma!" Danny raised his eyes.

"Don't you _Oh Ma_ me! _Oh Ma_ nothing! Not unless you want me to come upstairs, strip you, and wash you myself!"

A silent witness to all of this, Tom found it very difficult to suppress a ridiculous urge to smile: the elegant, former Lady Sybil Crawley arguing with her eldest son, swearing like a trooper, and worrying about the state of her kitchen floor!

For his part, at the prospect that Ma's suggestion had conjured up, Danny flushed crimson; knowing full well that if she was unduly provoked, despite her slightness of build, Ma was perfectly capable of making good and carrying out her threats. And, even if both Da and Ma had seen him naked many times when he was a little boy, at sixteen years old, these days Danny valued his privacy. "No, I didn't think so for sure!" continued Sybil in her no nonsense matter-of-fact tone that she reserved for the likes of Mr. Byrne down at the corner shop when, at least according to Ma, he had had the affrontery to short change her.

* * *

At the time, Da had thought it to have been nothing more than a genuine mistake, but Ma being Ma was having none of it; convinced that it had been deliberate, on account of her English antecedents. Apparently something similar had happened to her once before, years ago, in Dublin, or so Da said later. Watched open-mouthed by Danny, Saiorse, and also by Da, Ma had proceeded to reduce poor Mr. Byrne, a large and portly man, to a quivering wreck. So much so, that by the time she swept imperiously out of the shop with her family in tow, in a manner which even Danny's aristocratic Aunt Mary would have found hard to emulate, clutching triumphantly in her small gloved hand the money which she said she had been owed, Mr. Byrne was in a state akin to one of Mrs. White's jellies on the top shelf in the pantry at Downton Abbey.

* * *

"And when you're all done up there, Daniel Branson, mind you bring those filthy overalls back down here and put them straight in the copper in the wash house out back! Then light the fire and set them to boil. Understood? And close the door on your way out. Your Da and I have things to discuss".

"Yes, Ma," said Danny wearily, trying at the same time to also sound contrite. Like his beloved Da, he did so hate confrontations, much preferring to be a lover rather than a fighter. In his stocking feet, Danny padded his way across the quarry tiles towards the door leading into the hall. In the doorway he paused; shot his Da a final pained expression which he hoped conveyed, and in equal measure, both love and tacit support, and then quietly closed the door behind him as he had been instructed to do.

" **And**?" asked Sybil turning back to Tom who was still standing over by the dresser.

"Well, we were going to tell you all about it tonight, love. Do you mind if I sit down first? I've had a hell of a day, what with meetings at the Dáil with both de Valera and Bennett over last month's abolition of the Senate. Of course de Valera's cock-a-hoop that he's got his own way and Bennett's bloody furious, although to be honest I'm rather surprised that he thought he could take on de Valera and win. Any chance of a cup of tea, love? I'm absolutely parched?"

Sybil was on the point of tartly telling Tom to make it himself but something in his manner, and seeing how tired he looked, caused her instantly to relent. She nodded and waved him to the nearest chair. Both of them worked far too hard and with the demands of a growing family in which they both played their part to the full, though neither of them would have it any other way, these days, they were often bone weary. She knew that what Tom really needed was a holiday but with Matthew and Mary's social whirl and the demands of the estate, to say nothing of Matthew's involvement with the League of Nations in distant Geneva, the Bransons were not expected over at Downton until late August.

* * *

Equally, although Tom said little about it, as the years ran their round, on occasions he had seemed unaccountably out of breath, as had happened a few weeks ago, when they had all been out walking in the Dublin Mountains. With little Dermot along, the stroll had been neither arduous nor indeed long; Tom putting his shortness of breath down to nothing more than indigestion, having eaten too hearty a lunch. Since Sybil herself had cooked it, while her skills in that regard had improved considerably from what they had once been, that excuse didn't really wash.

So, although she said nothing at the time, so as not to alarm the other children, the following day, while at the Rotunda, she had sought out Dr. Keady, a colleague who hailed from County Galway, and voiced her fears openly to him. Sybil came away from that meeting somewhat reassured; accepted that it might just have been nothing more than the heat and a touch of indigestion but she knew too that Tom disliked any kind of fuss and also, in particular, hated going to see the doctor. Not that that came as any surprise. After all, during the winter months when he always went down with at least one heavy cold, while off work, sitting at home by the fire, or else in bed, even with a selection of his favourite books and newspapers placed beside him and all of them within easy reach, Tom proved a difficult and truculent patient, hating enforced idleness, something with Sybil could readily identify. However, if the problem persisted, then Sybil vowed that she would stand no further nonsense and would take him to see the doctor herself even if it meant dragging him there by force.

* * *

"All, right, I'll make it, and while I'm doing so, you can sit there quietly and tell me just what is that's going on. Here, you take Dermot".

So saying, Sybil promptly plumped the startled little boy into Tom's lap and then proceeded to bang about the kitchen, making considerably more noise than was necessary for such a simple task: first taking the empty kettle from off the stove and over to the Belfast, filling it with water, returning it to the stove. lighting the gas, and then fetching milk in a bottle from off the slate in the larder. In their turn, teapot, tea caddy, cups, spoons, and saucers all rattled onto the bare deal table. While she did so, Dermot sat playing quite contentedly with his father's watch chain. These days Tom normally wore a wrist watch. The heavy, solid gold watch and chain, with a short commemorative inscription inscribed on the reverse of the case, had been an unexpected gift from his late father-in-law back in '29, to mark Tom's appointment as Deputy Editor of the Irish Independent. As the mood took him, and these days, curious to relate, it did more often than heretofore, from time to time, Tom chose to wear it, but when he did, it was much more out of a sincere, devoted and heartfelt filial respect for the late Robert Crawley, fifth earl of Grantham, than for the intrinsic worth of the watch, which in itself was considerable.

"And?"

"Well, you remember when the four of us, Matthew, Rob, Danny and myself, all went over to the Swiss Grand Prix back in '34?"

Sybil nodded.

"So?"

"Sorry, love. I'm not explaining this very well. I mean, what happened ..."

"What do you mean, _what happened_?" Sybil asked. Just then, the kettle began to sing. Sybil moved to the stove, picked it up, returned with it to the table where she poured boiling water into the teapot to warm it thoroughly before discarding the water in the Belfast, spooning in the tea, adding more water, setting the kettle back on the stove, and turning off the gas. Tom waited until she had finished; was once more seated at the table before he continued with his tale.

"That Friedrich and Max were supposed to join us. Then Max slipped and fell in the garden at Rosenberg and ended up having to have a blood transfusion".

Sybil nodded again. It had been a most distressing and traumatic time for them all, what with the uncertainty as to whether or not young Max would pull through. It was especially hard for Edith, the more so since she had only just given birth to Kurt the year before.

"But I don't see what that has to do with ..." With the tea having brewed, and with young Dermot still seated contentedly in Tom's lap, Sybil began the business of pouring.

"Well you know Friedrich is in London this month, next week in fact, giving a series of lectures?"  
Again Sybil nodded.

"At the British Museum. Yes, Edith wrote and told me ..."

"Well, the thing is, what you don't know is that ..."

* * *

 **Estate Office, Downton, late afternoon, 11th June 1936.**

While outside in the cobbled stable yard it was still a very warm June afternoon, the sky an azure blue, flecked with but the merest wisps of high cloud, within the Estate Office, among all the leather bound books, the papers, and the maps, the temperature was positively glacial. So much so that Matthew thought it quite possible that in all likelihood the Arctic or the Antarctic, or indeed perhaps both, were likely to be warmer. The silence between them lengthened; deepened. Then the glass domed anniversary clock on the mantlepiece chimed the hour: four o'clock. All was not well; exceedingly so.

"I'm waiting," said Mary haughtily.

"Darling, I know it looks bad but I was going to tell you. In fact I should have done some time ago". On hearing his words, Mary gasped.

So it **was** true then. He **was** having an affair. For her part Mary saw that Matthew looked visibly shaken by her discovery of what had been going on. With her head throbbing, she blanched, sucked in her breath. Still standing by the door, Matthew now made to move towards her.

"Don't come anywhere near me! Don't touch me!" she warned.

"What is it? What on earth's the matter" he asked.

So, this is how it is going to be, thought Mary. Matthew brazening it out, pretending not to understand her.

"Do you **really** need me to spell it out for you? How could you, Matthew? After all these years ..." In her hand, she held out the note then looking directly at him, quoted from memory:

 **Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool**

 **Mona 11.15 16th June**

"It's not what you think".

"And what, pray, do I think?"

"Well, that I've been ... As I just said, I know I should have told you about it long before now but I promise I'll make it up to you!"  
"Make it up to me? How could you possibly begin to ... So you admit it then?" asked Mary not waiting for him to answer

" **Admit**? That's a strange word to use. Admit what?" Matthew's brows furrowed. He sighed. They were clearly at cross purposes but before he could explain things any further Mary asked yet another question.

"From where?" she countered.

"Pardon?"

"Mona?"  
"Oh, her," he said dismissively.

"Yes, **her**!"

"Birkenhead".

Well that fits, thought Mary. Just across the Mersey from Liverpool.

"She's two years old".

Good God! There's a child in all of this! Mona. Two years old. Then … Mary did a quick mental calculation. The affair … it must have been going on for some time; perhaps even while she had been _enceinte_ with little Emily. That would make sense too. And this assignation, next week at the Adelphi Hotel, in Liverpool, was presumably with Mona's nameless mother, no doubt arranged to settle certain financial matters. How could Matthew have done this? To her, to them all? Was he not embarrassed? Evidently not.

"When was she …"

"1934," said Matthew promptly.

He's absolutely no shame, no shame at all, thought Mary. And, if the child was born in 1934, then the affair itself must definitely have begun well before ...

"She's a replacement for Fenella".

Heavens! **A replacement**? Mary was horrified. For Fenella? Who on earth was Fenella? An exotic sounding name. But then, or so she had heard tell, women in that profession often assumed names which they thought were alluring, even beguiling, in order to give them a sense of mystery. Fenella. Another mistress then. No doubt also discarded by Matthew when he had tired of her! In all the years she had known him, she had considered him to be an honourable man. Never once had she thought him to be callous. But clearly he was.

"Well, I think it was Fenella. Sadly, memory fails me. There have, of course, been several".

" **Several**?"

Matthew nodded.

"Yes. She weighs nearly 3,000 tons".

Amply proportioned then. Mary had always thought Matthew preferred women who were slender, like herself. Obviously she had been mistaken but then it seemed she had been wrong about so many things. Perhaps if she had eaten more … been of the build of the late Mrs. Patmore. **3,000 tons**?

"What did you just say?"

"3,000 tons". Mary saw the corners of Matthew's mouth begin to twitch.

"I don't find this remotely amusing".

"Really?"

"Yes, really. No, what I mean is … No, I don't find …"

"Mary, she's a ship".

"Who is? I mean what is?"

"Mona".

"I **beg** your pardon?"

"A ship. _Mona's Queen_. She belongs to the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company. Built in Birkenhead, in 1934 as a replacement for the _Fenella_. You can thank our son Robert for providing me with those particular details".

"A ship," echoed Mary faintly.

"Yes".

"So you're not ..."  
"Not what?"  
"It doesn't matter," she said brokenly.

"Yes, it does," he said softly now moving closer, his eyes alive with mirth.

"What with all your recent trips to Liverpool, when I found this ..." Mary held out again the leaf torn from Matthew's pocketbook. "The Adelphi Hotel, Mona, I thought you were having …"

"An affair? Good God, you silly idiot!"

As with her brother-in-law Tom, Mary often found Matthew's sense of humour to be both incomprehensible and unpredictable. Apart from their deep and abiding friendship, it was something else that those two shared. And this proved to be one of those occasions, for Matthew now let out a great bellow of a laugh which was probably heard up at the house. In the next instant, he closed the last few feet between them and a moment later, holding her tightly in his arms, he was brushing feather light kisses across her forehead, her eyelids, her cheeks, his lips eagerly seeking her own.

"Matthew, I really don't know what to say. I didn't mean to doubt you, not after that stupid business of the comtesse de ..." She began to sob openly.

"Mary, do you honestly believe that loving you as I do, I could ever stoop to anything so base? You're the love of my life! I don't need anybody else. I never will!"

"Then what is it that you haven't told me?" she asked, nervously biting her lower lip.

"Darling, it's nothing unpleasant I assure you. Indeed, quite the reverse. In fact, it concerns young Max".

" **Max**?"

Matthew nodded.

"Yes. You remember when Tom, Danny, Robert, and myself, all went over to the Swiss Grand Prix in Bremgarten?"

Mary nodded.

"But I don't see how that concerns ..."  
"And then Friedrich and young Max were unable to join us as planned?"  
"Because of Max's fall. Yes ..."

"Well, the thing is ... Just a moment ..."

"Matthew, darling, what on earth are you doing?" Having gently broken away from her, Mary watched him stride purposefully across the floor as far as the door and turn the key in the well oiled lock. With Matthew having made a deliberate display of putting the key to the door in the pocket of his jacket, back beside her, he slid his arm around her waist and drew her to him.

"What does it look like? I'm taking steps to ensure that we're not disturbed," he said softly as he began leading Mary over to the rear of the office.

"But the men from the estate ..." she began, realising what it was he intended.  
Matthew smiled; shook his head.

"The door's locked and I possess the only key. So, may I suggest we put all this silly misunderstanding behind us and resume where we left off earlier this morning?" With an undeniable twinkle in his impossibly blue eyes, with the open palm of his hand, Matthew indicated before them the old army camp bed he had installed in a partitioned off corner of the Estate Office and which, from time to time, he made use of, when he was working very late.

"And there's something else I have to tell you too ... about ... Scotland".

"Matthew, darling, truly, I don't deserve you!" Mary felt giddy; light headed with relief and also with excitement at the anticipation of what the next hour would undoubtedly bring.

"No, you don't!" he said softly as he lowered her gently onto the waiting bed.

"Matthew Crawley, if you were a gentleman, you wouldn't say such awful things".

"Perhaps not. But then, my darling I'm no gentleman. I'm only middle class. As you so often keep reminding me!"

"And I wouldn't have it any other way!"

* * *

 **Snaefell, Isle of Man, 17th June 1936.**

Lying in the middle of the Irish Sea, almost equidistant from England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, thirty two miles long and some fourteen miles wide, the Isle of Man is a self governing dependency of the English Crown.

Up here, on the highest point of the island, whichever way any of them cared to look, whether north, south, east or west, the views from the windswept, lonely summit of the mountain were truly magnificent. Even so, despite the sunshine, at an altitude of some 2,000 feet, it was still much colder than it had been but a short while earlier down on the coast in the capital, Douglas, something which, from their attire, some of their fellow travellers seemed not to have appreciated.

From where the four of them were now standing, the land fell away, ever downwards, in a series of slopes, some gentle, some precipitous, all topped with short cropped turf, interspersed here and there with patches of bog, of marsh, of slate, of scree and outcrops of bare rock, rent by goyles and gullies. Spread out below them, and in all directions, lay a wide expanse of the island, mainly given over to stone-walled green fields, some dotted with sheep and cattle, while here and there could be glimpsed the buildings of a lonely farm, as well as the little town of Peel on the west coast, famous for its kippers, and, out on the far distant horizon, somewhere over towards the Scottish coast, beyond the Point of Ayre, a smudge of dark smoke denoted the presence of a solitary steamer.

"Ah, to be sure, from here you can see God's own country!" said Tom, raising his voice somewhat so as to be heard against the deafening howl of the wind. He watched, as Matthew, holding on to his trilby, did as Tom had expected he would do; now turned and looked east, over towards England.

"Wrong way, old chap! Ireland's over here!" Likewise holding onto his cap, Tom pointed in the opposite direction.

"Not at all, old boy!" laughed Matthew, "It's you, who's looking the wrong way; you thick Irish mick!"

Danny and Robert both grinned; sniggered at their fathers' easy banter.

"I t'ink we'll be havin' to agree to differ!" said Tom, now lapsing into a thick Irish brogue and chuckling good naturedly. He turned to Danny and Rob. "It's said, that from here you can see six kingdoms: the Isle of Man, England, **Ireland** , Scotland, Wales, and Heaven". Looking at Matthew as he said it, Tom laid a deliberate stress on the third of the names. "Barring Heaven, one day for sure the view will take in one kingdom and five republics!"  
"Perhaps," said Matthew affably.

"Look, son, there are the Mountains of Mourne!" exclaimed Tom, clearly excited.

Danny nodded; looked dutifully in the direction in which his father was now pointing excitedly but, if the truth be told, saw nothing, save the empty, silent sea, and there on the distant horizon a faint ribbon of haze which, while Da continued to insist it was the coast of Ireland, looked to Danny to be nothing more substantial than a drifting bank of mist.

"If you say so, Da!" Shaking his head in disbelief, sixteen year old Danny raised his eyes and grinned at Rob.

* * *

While the two boys walked over to look once again at the tram which had brought them from Laxey up here to the summit, Matthew and Tom took the opportunity thus afforded them for a quick chat.

"Well, we made it!" said Tom, now reluctantly tearing his eyes away from gazing seawards over towards his homeland. "For a while, back there in Blackrock, I wasn't at all sure if we would. When Sybil gets on her high horse ..."

Matthew nodded in agreement.

"Likewise. It was much the same at Downton!.

"Crawley women, eh?"" Tom chuckled.

"Agreed!"

"But then, when I explained to Sybil what we had in mind and why ..."

"As I did to Mary and that I wasn't ..."  
"Having a mad fling with ... who was it again?" Tom lofted a quizzical brow.  
"Fenella, from Birkenhead".

"For sure?"  
"Not at all! No such luck, I'm sorry to say!" chuckled Matthew. "Well, once I'd set her straight about that, darling Mary became quite understanding; the more so when I just happened to casually let slip about a trip up to Banchory later in the year". He grinned.

"You mean you really are ..."

"Taking Mary up to Scotland. For a second honeymoon? Yes. And for that I have to thank you, old chap. What with all the demands of the estate. the League and well, me being me, I probably wouldn't even have thought of it!"

* * *

"So, are you going to tell us what the surprise is, father?" asked Rob.

"All in good time," replied Matthew with a smile.

"When we get back to the hotel," said Tom with a wink.

"Da!" exclaimed Danny.

"Wait and see! Now, unless we all want to end up walking down the mountain, I think we'd all best be getting back to the tram".

A short while later, seated in the single saloon, with brakes squealing their protest, the tramcar was in motion, and, along with everyone else, mainly day trippers who, like themselves, had made the journey to the summit, the Bransons and the Crawleys found themselves grinding their way back down the side of the mountain to distant Laxey. At The Bungalow, the tram crossed over a country road, which formed part of the course of the TT along which, the following day, Tom himself would be racing. Once down at the little village of Laxey, they got off the tram, and, after a bite to eat in the nearby inn, walked the short distance, half a mile or so, no more, to the abandoned mine workings, passing on their way a row of miners' cottages.

"And here she is," said Danny shortly thereafter. "Gentlemen, may I present to you the Lady Isabella, built in 1854, aged eighty two, the largest water wheel in the world!"

* * *

 **Dining Room, Sefton Hotel, Douglas, Isle of Man, 17th June 1936.**

"Six," corrected the earl of Grantham. The maître d nodded his head.

"Certainly, Your Lordship. This way, if you please". Behind their fathers, Danny and Robert now exchanged surprised glances. Why six? There were indeed only four of them.

It was now, as they made their way across the dining room, wending their way among the other tables, that Danny suddenly let out a whoop of delight, causing many of the other diners present to turn and look about them to see what had occasioned such an unseemly outburst.

"It can't be …" began Robert.  
"It damned well is, for sure!" exclaimed Danny.

 **Author's note:**

After a campaign fought the previous year (1935) between those desirous of its retention and those seeking its demise, the Senate of the Irish Free State was controversially abolished in May 1936, de Valera arguing that the Senate's delay in permitting certain constitutional changes had been illegal. A new Senate was formed in 1937.

Thomas Westropp Bennett (1867-1962) was an Irish politician, magistrate and a prominent figure in Irish agriculture. As Chairman of the Senate he bitterly opposed its abolition as being unconstitutional.

The RMS Mona's Queen did belong to the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company. Built in 1934, at Birkenhead, she had a short life, being sunk by a mine in May 1940 during the Dunkirk evacuation.

Opened in 1895, the Snaefell Mountain Railway is still in operation today.

The Isle of Man Tourist Trophy "TT", a race between motorcyclists over public roads at very high speeds, has been held on the island ever since 1907.

The Lady Isabella is indeed the largest working waterwheel in the world and these days also a major tourist attraction.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Triumph And Disaster Part I

 **Douglas, Isle of Man, 17th June 1936.**

If, at the time of Friedrich and Max's visit to Berlin, the capital of Germany had been en fête in anticipation of hosting the forthcoming XI Olympiad, then Douglas, the much smaller capital of the Isle of Man, compared to Berlin little more than a provincial seaside town, was also in a highly festive mood.

As with Berlin, the reason for this was not hard to fathom with the much anticipated 1936 Manx TT now under way, in the Senior category of which Tom himself was taking part in but a day or so's time. As a result, here in Douglas, all the many guest houses and hotels situated on the landward side of the long curving Promenade facing the Irish Sea, as well as those elsewhere in the small town, and yet others still further afield, scattered across the length and breadth of the island, in Port Erin, in Peel, in Ramsey and in a host of other places too numerous to mention, were all positively bursting at the seams with visitors.

Among these were, of course, those who had come to compete, both individuals and others who were part of the racing teams of various motorcycle manufacturers such as Excelsior, Norton, and Velocette, all of whom were British. Others had come from further afield, such as NSU and DKW or, to give them their full names, NSU Motorenwerke AG of Neckarsulm, Württemberg, and Dampf-Kraft-Wagen, now part of Auto Union AG, from Chemnitz in Saxony, both from Nazi Germany.

While many of the competitors such as Jimmy Guthrie, Freddie Frith - who had the previous day won the Junior TT - and Ted Mellors - who had come third in the same event - were British, there were others, including Stanley Woods and Henry Tyrell-Smith, who hailed from Ireland, both of whom Tom had met in the past and who had helped him complete the necessary formalities in order to compete; as well as the likes of J. C. Galway from the Union of South Africa, C. Goldberg from New Zealand, and Oskar Steinbach and Heiner Fleischmann from Germany. Of course many of the visitors here to the island had come merely to spectate, while there were yet those who had not the slightest interest in the Races and who were simply here on holiday.

Of course there were some on the island who complained sniffily about all the noise, the petrol fumes and the speed at which the motorcycles were ridden, as well as what they saw as the annual and unwelcome influx of the hoi polloi, many of whom were young working class men from the north west of England.

However, by and large, it must be said that most Manx welcomed the TT, especially the proprietors of the hotels and the landladies of the guesthouses. And, the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company with its three new, luxurious ships, all resplendent in their smart summer livery of white and green, _Ben-My-Chree_ , _Lady of Mann_ , and _Mona's Queen_ on which Matthew and Robert had sailed here from Liverpool, was doing a roaring trade. Even if the Company had seen fit to raise its prices in order to take advantage of a short-lived, yet exceedingly lucrative, increase in trade.

* * *

 **Dining Room, Sefton Hotel, Douglas, Isle of Man, evening 17th June 1936.**

"Und nun die Überraschung , von denen ich sprach!"

With a smile, Friedrich nodded his head in the direction of the door of the hotel dining room, Max's eyes growing as wide as saucers and a broad grin now spreading across his face when he saw who it was who had just entered the room. Only his breeding and innate good manners, instilled into him by both his parents from when he was a little boy, as well as he himself these days harbouring a secret desire to be thought more grown up than was actually the case, prevented Max from leaping excitedly from his chair.

* * *

For his part, while brought up to be both respectful and well mannered, Danny Branson, like his parents, was open, warm hearted, and spontaneous with his feelings, and had no such qualms.

" **Max**! **Uncle Friedrich**!" he cried on catching sight of both his Austrian cousin and Max's father, while Robert, who was rather more self-conscious and restrained, merely raised his hand in friendly greeting. Thereafter with both fathers and their sons having reached the table where Friedrich and Max had been sitting and, with the two of them having risen immediately to their feet, there now followed much heartfelt shaking of hands, while about them those other guests present in the dining room, involuntary witnesses to the happy reunion, now returned to their meals and their own conversations.

* * *

"Uncle Friedrich, what are you and Max doing here for sure?" asked Danny when at last they were finally all seated round the circular table.

"Well, as you may know I was making a trip to England to lecture at the British Museum, the Ashmolean, that's another museum, in Oxford, and also at the Fitzwilliam in Cambridge. Hearing from your father, that he intended to race in the TT, knowing just how disappointed Max had been, not to be able to meet up with you all at Bremgarten, as indeed was I, with Max just having had his thirteenth birthday, I decided to bring him along, and so arranged things with your father for us to meet up here in the Isle of Man".

"But why keep all of it a secret?" asked Robert letting his curiosity overcome his customary good manners.

His uncle smiled benevolently.

"Forgive me, but I'm sorry to say the temptation to do so proved irresistible".

Friedrich smiled warmly at his nephew and at his son. He shot a warning glance at both Matthew and Tom who, like Mary and Sybil were well aware of the real reason for all of this, that, notwithstanding the deteriorating situation in Europe, with Max's parlous state of health, after a run of very good luck he had now suffered a succession of serious bleeds, to which fading dark patches under both his eyes bore silent witness, there being every chance that with another, he might never see his cousins again. Friedrich nodded at his two brothers-in-law; knew they had understood the necessity for his well meaning obfuscation. 'Carpe diem," he said softly.

Not that Friedrich made any mention of the fact, but it had been very much touch and go as to whether Max would have the strength to make this trip at all, which explained, in part, Edith's reservations. But somehow he had, and so far all had been well. Indeed, it was a mystery to both his parents from whence Max drew his inner reserves of strength; the doctors too were at a loss to explain it, but suffice to say here they both were, sitting in the dining room of the Sefton Hotel in Douglas, with Max already chattering happily away with his two cousins, telling them all about the flight from Berlin.

"And will you really be all right now, Max?" asked Danny, clearly concerned.

Max smiled wanly

"Will you?" asked Robert, equally worried.

Max smiled again. 'I do hope so," he said earnestly.

With the waiter having placed menus before one all, and the maître d' continuing to hover close by in watchful attendance, it fell to Matthew to ask them all the obvious question.

"What is everyone going to choose to eat?" he asked brightly.

* * *

 **Loch Promenade, Douglas, later that same evening.**

Even though it was now ten o'clock, it was still very warm indeed.

With Tom and Danny having gone off to make some further adjustments to the motorbike, upon which Tom had admitted shyly over dinner to having long ago bestowed the name of Sidhe, the Old Irish word for "wind", Matthew and Friedrich with Robert and Max in tow, had spent the last hour or so chatting together out on the Promenade opposite the hotel.

Even at this late hour, with the street lamps now lit, taking advantage of the warm weather, there were still large numbers of people about. Some, like themselves, were just taking a leisurely evening stroll around Douglas Bay, although, judging by their attire, many of the younger folk were bound for one of the enormous dance halls such as the White Palace or Derby Castle situated further along the Promenade towards Onchan Head, while for their part the horse trams and the motor 'buses were all doing a roaring trade in fares.

"... and regrettably, from what I observed in Berlin, Tom very much has the right of it," said Friedrich sadly. "Max! Not on there!"

Robert had perched himself on top of the cast iron railing on the very edge of the sea wall beyond which was a sheer drop of some twenty feet or so to the beach below. Max had made to follow suit but now, and just as quickly, eased himself back down onto the ground, clearly embarrassed at receiving such a public reprimand from his father.

"I'm sorry," said Matthew.

"Don't be. It's not your fault. Neither is it Robert's. Nor for that matter is Max really to blame. Both Edith and I were warned by the doctors that a boy with his condition would often behave this way, it's even got a name: daredevil reaction".  
"Daredevil reaction?"  
"Deliberately taking risks; even if that's not how Max himself sees it and I'm certain he doesn't. He's a good boy at heart; just longing to be like Danny and Robert, only, of course, he never will be".

"Believe me, I do understand, what an awful business this must be," said Matthew, his compassion and sincerity clear to see.

"There's something else I need to mention. I believe Edith has already spoken to Mary about it a long while ago but ... if anything should happen to either of us ... then I want to know that I can rely on you to see that our two boys are brought here to safety in England".

"Of course. You have my word on that. Do you **really** think that Herr Hitler will try and push through a union between Germany and Austria?"

"In a word? Yes. I've no doubt of it. None whatsoever. Schuschnigg is no match for Hitler. And the Nazi hotheads in Austria can't wait for the whole idea of Anschluss with Germany to become a reality. And more's the pity because when it does ... Ah, here comes Danny, no doubt with news of the motorbike!"

* * *

 **Later that same evening, somewhere off Market Street, Douglas.**

While they all waited for Tom to appear, someone coughed, and somebody else cleared his throat. Then the door at the far end of the old stable at last creaked open.

"Well, here she is," said Tom somewhat self consciously, all the while beaming broadly, the pride in his voice clearly evident as, seated astride the gleaming green and silver machine, he puttered forward into the lamplight, where, save for Danny, he proceeded to introduce them all to his much loved motorbike for the very first time.

"So what type is she again?" asked Matthew as Tom now dismounted.

"A Triumph H, 500 cc. Your army left her behind at Skerries when they went back to barracks in Cork in the summer of 1920. At the time, she was a feckin' wreck for sure. The sergeant who let me have her said she was beyond repair, fit only for the scrapheap. But **I** restored her," said Tom proudly.

Matthew nodded.

"Yes, I remember you telling me how it all came about. And a damned fine job you've made of her too!"

Tom smiled and patted his motorbike with obvious affection.

Standing beside Matthew, Danny who had just finished checking the tyre pressures, along with the oil level, as well as all the nuts and bolts for tightness, wiping his dirty hands on a piece of cotton waste, now grinned, turned, and whispered quietly in his uncle's ear.

"Once, when I was five or six years old, we were all supposed to have gone for a walk along the beach at Blackrock. Instead, Da spent that whole Sunday afternoon working on the 'bike. Ma was feckin' furious. She told him he loved his 'bike more than he did all of us and that if he didn't watch his step she'd arrange for the rag-and-bone man to call for sure!"

His uncle chuckled softly.

"Somehow, I doubt that very much!"

"So do I! Although I'm not too sure about the rag-and-bone man!" laughed Danny.

Tom smiled at Max, now beckoned him forward.

"Do you want to sit on her?"

" **May I** , Uncle Tom?" His eyes shining, Max could not conceal his delight.

"Of course!"

Tom helped Max sit astride the Triumph, lending him a pair of goggles for greater effect, before his father took a picture with his Leica IIIa; Friedrich remarking afterwards, and with a wry smile, that he would take steps to prepare Edith for what the photograph actually depicted before he let her see it.

"Exactly how long did you say the course was?" asked Friedrich shutting away the Leica in its leather case.

"Just over thirty seven miles, but you have to go round the circuit seven times, so in total some two hundred and sixty miles or thereabouts, and what's more, it's against the clock".

"Uncle Tom?"

"Hm?"

"Is it true there's no speed limit?" asked Robert.

Tom nodded.

"For sure, and sadly over the years, several riders have been killed; two just last year but don't worry, I intend taking the very greatest care".

"Da?"  
"Yes, son?"

"Ma asked me to give you this. She didn't say when but now seems as good a time as any for sure". Danny held out a small package wrapped in brown paper.

Within Tom found a check silk scarf, one which he and Sybil had seen in the window of Kennedy and McSharry's on Westmoreland Street in Dublin several weeks ago and which he himself had very much admired. It was in the colours of Ireland: green for Irish republicanism, orange for those who had supported King Billy at the Boyne, and white symbolising what, even now, was still only an aspiration, a lasting peace between both Catholic and Protestant.

And with the scarf there came a short letter, from Sybil; the contents of which, once he himself had read them, with his eyes misting and his voice faltering, Tom said would prefer to keep private, a sentiment which he trusted the others would all fully understand.

"Well," he said, now regaining his composure and at the same time carefully folding up the silk scarf and thrusting it with the letter into his pocket, "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm for bed for sure!"

* * *

 **Douglas, early morning, 18th June 1936.**

After a hearty breakfast, before Tom and Danny went to check on the Triumph, Branson, Crawley, and Schonborn all took a bracing, companionable stroll together. Later today, it was their intention to go and watch the Lightweight Race being run and which, all things being equal, should have taken place yesterday, but the event had been postponed owing to thick fog up around Snaefell.

However, for the time being their route on foot took them northwards from the Sefton, past the Gaiety Theatre next door. Thence along the broad curve of Loch Promenade, which followed the wide sweep of Douglas Bay, past the rows of guest houses, the Villa Marina, the enormous White Palace dance hall, as far as the ornate canopied terminus of the Douglas Bay Horse Tramway with its clock tower, standing beside the entrance to Derby Castle and its huge pleasure grounds. The location of which was proclaimed for all to see with the name _Derby Castle_ painted in huge white letters across the roof of the distant tram sheds of the Manx Electric Railway nestling below Onchan Head dominated by the castellated buildings of the Falcon Cliff Hotel.

And, this time, it was the fathers who, discretely amused, followed contentedly in the wake of their constantly chattering, excited sons. While Danny and Robert had already passed over the threshold that takes a boy to early manhood, Max had yet to do so, but this notwithstanding it seemed as if nothing between the three of them had changed; nor indeed ever would. _Un pour tous et tous pour un_ , just as it had been ever since their adventure in the Alps back in the summer of 1932. And for Max, despite all the excitement of the flight over to England from Berlin, it seemed that this unexpected reunion here in Douglas between his two cousins and himself surpassed everything else.

From behind them, there came a rumble of wheels, the clink of harness, and the steady clip clop of a horse's hooves as one of the little trams headed slowly past them towards Derby Castle. Meanwhile, down at the Victoria Pier, where a thick pall of black smoke drifted languidly across the pale blue of the early morning sky, there came an enormous blast on a ship's whistle. Turning, they all saw that Mary's very own bête noire, _Mona's_ _Queen_ , was departing on an early morning sailing for Liverpool and swiftly putting out to sea.

* * *

Having resumed their interrupted walk in the direction of Derby Castle, but this time unheeded by them, there came a similar, sonorous blast, from another steam packet which was rapidly approaching the outer walls of the harbour; the _Lady of Mann_ , inbound to Douglas, her decks thronged with passengers in the guise of yet another load of visitors to the island, all anxious to catch their first glimpse of the Isle of Man. Among them was an Irishman in a flat blue cap, grey jacket, and brown corduroy trousers who, but a short time later, while disembarking down the gangway, found himself offered help with his heavy suitcase by a chirpy, kind-hearted scouser from Wallasey who took pity on the man without the full use of his left arm.

* * *

Had there been anyone else around to see him do so, without his suitcase but instead shouldering a rucksack, the very same Irishman,could have been observed sometime later, getting off the train from Douglas at the isolated little station at Lezayre, on the edge of Ramsey in the far north of the island. The countryside hereabouts was both rural and mountainous. Rather more to the point, at least as far as the Irishman was concerned, through it there passed one of the most isolated stretches of the TT course, high up on the inhospitable slopes of Snaefell itself.

* * *

Having left the wayside station well behind him, clambering over an isolated stile, the man glanced upwards; saw that the sun was climbing yet still higher into the sky and feeling hot, now slipped off his jacket. It had, thought Fergal, every promise of being a beautiful day.

 **Author's Note:**

While some of Douglas remains as described, much has sadly ceased to exist, including several of the locations referred to in the story such as the White Palace and Derby Castle, both of which were misguidedly torn down in the 1960s to make way for what were then considered more modern facilities.

Kurt Alois Josef Johann Schuschnigg (1897-1977) Chancellor of Austria (1934-38). He opposed Hitler's plan to absorb Austria into the Third Reich.

For the earlier history of Tom's motorcycle, see my other stories _Home Is Where The Heart Is_ and _Reunion_.

Rag-and-bone man - an itinerant, often with a horse and cart, who collected unwanted goods to sell for scrap.

Founded in 1890, Kennedy and McSharry's, then on Westmoreland Street, are Dublin's oldest gentlemen's outfitters.

King Billy - William III of Orange whose Protestant troops defeated those of the Catholic James II at the Battle of the Boyne in July 1690.

"Scouser", a nickname given to people from Liverpool; apparently from "lobscouse" the name of a stew once eaten both by sailors and working-class people living in the area.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Triumph And Disaster Part II

 **Snaefell, Isle of Man, early morning, 19th June 1936**.

Here, on the desolate slopes of the mountain, overlooking what was the highest point of the TT Course, exposed to the elements, with the mist at last now rising, hidden among the rocks, so as to avoid being seen from below, Fergal lay flat on his belly, stretched out full length on the short cropped turf, gazing down fixedly through his binoculars at the grey ribbon of empty road.

Earlier this same morning, when he had set off on foot from his temporary lodgings, at a remote farm in the vicinity of Kirk St. Michael on the northwest coast of the island, it had been dark. Fergal had arrived here late on the evening of the day before yesterday after a very productive reconnoitering tramp across the slopes of the mountain from where he had left the train at Lezayre. On encountering the out-of-the-way homestead at sunset for the first time, the low, stone walled house with its thatched roof, the midden steaming in the yard, the cattle lowing in the byre, and the sheep bleating in the fields beyond had reminded Fergal very much of the farm which his adoptive parents, the Ryans, had worked on the old Skerries Estate across the sea, in Ireland, down in County Cork.

When Fergal left the farm not only had it had been dark but, it had also been foggy. Indeed, almost the moment he had set his hand to the latch and closed the gate of the yard behind him, the house and the outbuildings had disappeared from view in an instant, all hidden from sight beneath a chill, damp blanket of mist. Thereafter, as he had begun his renewed ascent onto the bare slopes of the mountain, the mist had grown denser, seeming to grow ever thicker the higher he climbed, as he headed for the notch on the skyline which marked where the course of the track which he had seen earlier in his room, marked on his Ordnance Survey map, breasted the distant ridge.

As he plodded on, Fergal fell to thinking that what he had read was true enough, that up here, the highest part of the island was indeed prone to such sudden fogs; thick mists which could and did descend in an instant, quickly, and often without warning. That they were an unwelcome feature of the racing circuit too, for when the mists came down, visibility was reduced to zero and understandably all racing was prohibited until the fog lifted. Sometimes it did so almost as soon as it had descended, while on other occasions it would last for days.

Fergal was only too well aware here on the Isle of Man, these eddying, swirling mists touched a superstitious nerve in the people of this sea-girt island. Perhaps rather surprisingly, he understood too why this was so. For, despite being able to assume an air of cultivated urbanity, acquired as a result of the amount of time he had spent at the German Foreign Ministry on the Wilhelmstrasse in distant Berlin, if circumstances so merited, when it came to ghosts, ghoulies, and things that go bump in the night, being Irish, Fergal retained a long suppressed belief in the existence of the supernatural.

For, as across the Irish Sea, in Erin, here in the Isle of Man there were tales and legends, stretching back as far as the dawn of time, which told that such fogs were unearthly, that within them there lurked entrances into another world wherein dwelt dragons and a myriad of other fanciful creatures such as bugganes, glashtyns and fenodyrees, as well as the souls of the departed. That somehow, such fogs had the ability too to craft a curious atmosphere; to distort what was real and tangible, especially sound as well as to fashion likenesses, seemingly substantial, which, in reality, were of no more substance than what up on the summit of this very mountain but a couple of days earlier, unbeknownst to Fergal, even Tom Branson himself had taken to be the far distant coast of Ireland.

Well, thought Fergal with a grim smile, Josef Goebbels might seek to hold sway over the thoughts and minds of all those living in Nazi Germany, but while his powers were sweeping in their extent, they did not give him the ability to control the weather. With this thought in mind, shivering, Fergal plodded on through the enveloping murk. The dank air was both oppressive and still, there not being a breath of wind, the enfolding silence all pervasive, without birdsong or the bleat of sheep, the grasses beneath his booted feet sodden and un-stirring.

* * *

 **Sefton Hotel, Douglas, that very same morning.**

It was probably nothing more than the early morning sunlight, now peeping with a dogged persistence between the curtains, which had caused Tom Branson to awaken with a sudden start. Then again, with four boisterous and lively children, down the years both he and Sybil had become very used both to waking and being woken early. Not that Tom was a morning person; he never had been and never would be. So it may have had more to do with the fact that while the bed was comfy enough, he was so unused to sleeping on his own. Perhaps even too, although he would never have admitted it, not even to himself, owing to having a slight case of nerves as to what the day itself might bring. Not that he had any allusions about his chances. After all, many of those riding in the Senior TT were far more practised riders than he was himself. No, as Tom had confided to Matthew the previous evening when they said good night, all he wanted to do was to complete the course safely and in as respectable a time as possible.

Then again, his waking early might also have had something to do with the dream he had been having; the precise nature of which he could not now recall, except for the fact that it had been exceedingly unpleasant. Knew too that it had left him with the very same sickening sensation in the pit of his stomach that he had experienced but once before; when by the skin of his teeth he had managed to bring the runaway Fiat Tourer to a stand beside the railway line on the plain below the Fiesole Hills back in the summer of 1932, thereby saving the lives of his mother-in-law, his wife, his children and also his own.

Now wide awake and sitting up in bed, glancing over to the other side of the room, Tom saw that Danny was still fast asleep which, in itself, was hardly surprising. Last night, some time after Max and his father had gone up to bed, Friedrich already having allowed Max to stay up much later than was normal, promising to honour the trust placed in them, with the permission of their own fathers, Danny and Robert had taken themselves out for a late evening stroll along the Promenade.

* * *

 **Sefton Hotel, the previous night.**

And, like as not, thought Tom, making the very most of the opportunity thus afforded them to chat up the girls they found down at either the White Palace or else Derby Castle, then to dance, whisper sweet nothings, and to buy them all glasses of dandelion and burdock or cooling lemonade. All of which, no doubt, would be made the very much easier by the fact that both Danny and Rob had money to spend and, more importantly, had grown into a pair of exceedingly personable and handsome young men. Albeit that when it came to the opposite sex, Rob was not quite as self assured as Danny; at least not yet. All of which, while Tom was getting undressed and making ready for bed led to a brief period of idle speculation on his part as to just who the two young men might eventually choose to marry. It was with this thought still uppermost in his mind that he climbed into bed where, having turned out the light, shortly thereafter he fell asleep.

Much later, while Danny had done his very best not to disturb his father, and no doubt Rob had done the same next door, Tom was awoken by the sound of his son coming into the bedroom they were both sharing. Turning over, glancing swiftly at his watch lying on top of the nightstand, Tom saw that it was now well after midnight.

"Goodnight, son".  
"Sorry, Da, I didn't mean to wake yous," whispered Danny.

"No matter, for sure. Did yous both have a good time?"  
"For sure, Da. Yes, we did," replied Danny, his voice muffled as he pulled his vest over his head while he readied himself for bed.

Even though he could not see his son's face, Danny sounded well pleased with himself and at that Tom smiled.

"Well, goodnight, son".

"Goodnight, Da".

* * *

 **Sefton Hotel, the following morning.**

It was now that Tom's eyes lit on Sybil's letter, lying beside his watch on top of the nightstand, and which had been enclosed with the silk scarf she had bought for him in Kennedy and Mcsharry's and then had entrusted to Danny to give to his father when they arrived here on the Isle of Man.

Having been married for some sixteen years, indeed it would be seventeen come the middle of next month, even though he knew her as well she did him, to Tom it still seemed a wonderful thing that he could have inspired Sybil to write him such a letter. Barring those hellish months, early in 1921, when he had been abducted by the Black and Tans back in December 1920 during the burning of Cork, imprisoned in an isolated police barracks, beaten savagely, and then along with several others, of whom he alone would be the only survivor, thrown alive down that abandoned mine shaft at Allihies in the far south west of Ireland, the amount of days which he and Sybil had spent apart could be numbered on the fingers of one hand.

Tom reached for the envelope, once more took out and unfolded the letter contained within. He had a little difficulty in deciphering some of Sybil's words, not on account of her handwriting which, as ever, was both clear and precise, but because some of the words were now slightly smudged by the tears he had shed upon reading it properly for the first time in this very room when they had all returned here to the hotel from viewing the Triumph.

* * *

 **Sefton Hotel, the previous night.**

Seeing his Da's eyes wet with tears, Danny at once crossed the bedroom, sat down beside him on the bed, tentatively placed an arm about his father's shoulders, and asked if everything was all right, to which Tom had nodded his head.

"Of course. For sure!" he whispered.  
"Then why are yous crying, Da?"  
"Son, I love your Ma so very, very much," said Tom softly.

"Yes, I know yous do, Da," said Danny.

"And do yous recall the talk yous and I had, some years ago, when we were in Florence, about what it means to be in love?"  
"For sure, Da".

"Do yous remember what I told yous?"  
"Some of it, Da, for sure".

"Well, read this, and yous'll see that what I told yous is true enough".

"Jaysus, Da, what Ma wrote yous ... that's private!"

Tom smiled and nodded his head.

"Ay, son, it is for sure," he said softly. "And all things being equal, I wouldn't dream of showing it yous. But all the same, now that yous almost a man grown, I want yous to read it. Especially the last page. Here, take it". So saying, Tom handed Danny his mother's letter.

Having done as he had been asked, Danny glanced cursorily at the first two pages, most of which he saw was taken up with Ma's inconsequential chatter about Saiorse, Bobby, Dermot, and also himself, as well as about the forthcoming race over here in the Isle of Man, made mention of the fact that it was more important that Da take part than to win, echoing what Edith herself had written in the telegram she had sent Tom from Rosenberg. It was then, when Danny reached the final page and began to read in earnest what his mother had now written to his father, that Tom saw the colour flood across his son's face. In that very instant he knew that Danny had understood.

* * *

 _Oh, my very own darling, I know that by the time you read these few lines it will be only but a day or so since we parted on the quayside at Kingstown - even now after all these years I still can't think of it as Dun Laoghaire - I know too that I will be missing you so very, very much. Even with our three youngest here in the house, it will still feel so empty. And when at last I have to go upstairs to our bedroom I know I will feel so alone lying there in the darkness without you beside me in our bed._

 _Dearest Tom, despite all the trials and tribulations, I know that we have been incredibly lucky, first to meet the way we did, and then for everything we have both shared over the last sixteen years, including our four wonderful children. Thank you, my darling, from the very bottom of my heart for everything you have given me, have been to me, and I know will be to me in the years to come. How much I love you ...your gentle, tenderness, the physical way you show me your love ..._ _our being together as man and wife ... when you take me in your arms ... Tom, my dearest, dearest dear ... I absolutely adore you!_

 _Now my darling, I must end this letter which I am giving to Danny to pass on to you when he judges the moment to be right._

 _Saiorse, Bobby, and Dermot all send their love._

 _And so, my very own darling, do I._

 _Sleep well tonight._

 _I miss you so very much._

 _I kiss you, caress you, love you._

 _Ever your very own_

 _Sybil_

* * *

Danny had raised his eyes to find those of his father upon him.

"I hope that one day I find someone to love as much as yous love Ma and who loves me as much as Ma loves yous," he said softly.

Tom nodded.

"Yous will. Just give it time, for sure".

* * *

 **Dining Room, Sefton Hotel, later the following morning.**

Here in Douglas, beneath a cloudless blue sky, the little town basked in glorious sunshine, there being every promise that it would be a beautiful day, while there was a palpable sense of excitement in the air as to what the main event of the day - the Senior TT - would bring.

Outside the Sefton Hotel, beyond the cast iron railings of the Promenade, sunlight glittered on the crests and ripples of the incoming tide, while high above the waters of the bay, screaming raucously, a screech of beady eyed, yellow beaked, black, white, and grey gulls swooped and dived on the surface of the sea, in a seemingly never-ending, search for food. Conversely, here, within the elegant dining room of the hotel it could be said that this morning's search for food was over; insofar as those individuals who made up the small party encompassing the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schönborns, had long since finished their respective breakfasts.

All that was, save one.

"What, for sure?" asked Tom with a grin, now glancing up from his plate, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with his linen napkin, and, at the very same time, finding that five pairs of eyes were upon him; watching with obvious and undisguised interest while he finished his breakfast.

"I think I may safely speak for everyone else round this table," said Matthew with a merry twinkle in his eye and setting down his now empty tea cup in its saucer, "that we were all wondering precisely what it was that particular plate had done to so offend you?"

Tom looked perplexed.

Whether at home in Blackrock or when he was staying at Downton, Tom always enjoyed his breakfast. And so too in Douglas. Indeed, so much so, that this morning, here at the Sefton Hotel, he had proceeded to ask a startled waiter for another serving of sausages, fried bread, eggs, and bacon, and was presently engaged scraping his plate clean for the second time.

"Da, what Uncle Matthew means is that if you scrape that plate anymore you'll be scraping off the pattern for sure!" chuckled Danny.

"Oh, that!" Tom grinned. "Well, son, I've a heavy day ahead of me, for sure!"  
"And if you eat anymore I have no doubt whatsoever that your motorbike will buckle under the strain of carrying you up over Snaefell!" chuckled Matthew. Everyone else laughed too. Smiling, Tom set down his knife and fork on the now empty plate; was on the verge of making a suitably pithy reply to his English brother-in-law, when it happened.

Just as it had done yesterday afternoon.

High on the windswept slopes of Snaefell.

And again, earlier this morning, over by the grandstand on Glencrutchery Road.

Both of which could have had perfectly prosaic explanations.

Only this time, it was here, over breakfast, in the commonplace surroundings of a hotel dining room.

Suddenly, although no-one else except Tom himself seemed to have noticed, the murmur of voices, the hushed conversations, the chink of cutlery on china, and all the other myriad number of sounds which one hears in a hotel dining room, faded into silence, as from somewhere beyond the window, as before, there came the same deep, throaty roar of a motorbike.

A moment later, beside them, on the next table, someone coughed, elsewhere a fork was dropped to the floor and just as hastily retrieved and replaced by an observant waiter, from the other side of the room there came the rustle of the pages of a newspaper, closer at hand another waiter asked if more tea was required, nearby steam spiraled languidly from the spout of a hot water pot, there was the clatter of cutlery, the mouth-watering aroma of food, the rattle of china, the whole dining room alive as before with the constant babble and chatter of voices.

Normality had returned and, seemingly, everything was as it had been before. And yet for all that ...

"Tom? Are you all right, old chap?"

"Yes, perfectly. Didn't any of you ..."

"Didn't we what, Da?" asked Danny who, obviously concerned, now regarded his father thoughtfully with his blue eyes.

"Nervous?" asked Friedrich setting aside his copy of the Times. "And, before you answer that, if it makes you feel any better, I know I always was, before going on a sortie, during the war".

"No, not at all. I'm looking forward to it. In fact, I ..."

Standing beside their table, holding a silver salver, the maitre d' contrived a discrete cough.

"Yes, what is it?" asked Matthew.

"Telegrams, Your Lordship. One for yourself, and ... two for Mr. Branson".

" **Two**? **For me**?" Tom sounded somewhat surprised.

The maitre d' nodded his head gravely and held out the salver.

* * *

The first telegram was from Sybil:

 **WITH EVERY GOOD WISH FOR A SAFE AND SUCCESSFUL DAY**

The other was from Mary and which, when Tom opened it, while likewise wishing him every success, also reminded him to take the very greatest care of himself; Tom being very touched by his aristocratic sister-in-law's obvious concern for his well being.

The third telegram, which was for Matthew, was also from Mary. Its contents were somewhat briefer:

 **DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT**

The laconic wording of which now required some explanation on the part of Matthew himself.

"Well, Rob will bear me out on this. On the night before we left for Liverpool, during dinner, I just happened to mention that, I thought next year, I myself might take part". Matthew smiled. "But I see now that is obviously out of the question! Ah, well, as Shakespeare said _perchance to dream_!"

Along with a deliberate slump of his shoulders, Matthew gave a theatrical sigh, both of which were worthy of Ivor Novello, the earl of Grantham contriving to cut a forlorn and dejected figure, while everyone around the table, Matthew included, joined in the laughter which followed.

* * *

 **Isle of Man, the previous morning.**

After breakfast, before the public roads were closed to traffic, both for practice runs by competitors as well as for the duration of the Lightweight TT, the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schönborns, all went off on a motoring tour, around the island, over the whole length of the course; commencing at the start by the scoreboard, the pits, and the wooden grandstand on Glencrutchery Road, thence out of Douglas, heading west, in the direction of Peel.

With the hood of the hired Crossley Tourer down so as to enable them all to take full advantage of the warm sunshine, with Matthew driving, Tom seated beside him, and everyone else crammed together on the back seat, they motored on through a succession of quiet villages and hamlets by way of Bradden, Union Mills, Glen Vine and Crosby. Even though the roads they traversed were now properly surfaced, and so much improved since the early days of the TT, with traffic on them negligible, mindful of the presence with him in the motor of Max and everyone else, Matthew forwent his customary love of speed and instead took the very greatest care to drive safely.

When they reached Ballacraine, Matthew took a slight detour and brought the Crossley to a stop beside Tynwald Hill, close to St. John's, so that they could all see the grassy hill on which once a year, the Manx Parliament, established over a thousand years ago by Norse settlers, met in an open air ceremony, and where one could hear a reading of a summary of all laws passed in the preceding year, both in English and Manx. As they drove away, it was left to Friedrich to observe ruefully that now here in the early twentieth century, both in Germany and in Austria, parliamentary democracy was a dead letter.

Back at Ballacraine, they turned left, heading north, passing through Glen Helen, Kirk St. Michael, Ballaugh and Sulby as far as Ramsey, nearly twenty four miles from whence they had started, _en route_ , the Tourer drawing admiring glances from many of those already beginning to fore gather for the start of the TT itself. Having reached Ramsey, after driving briskly along Parliament Square, and thence out of town, the motor began to climb, uphill along the Snaefell Mountain Road, which led southwards all the way to Douglas, and which, in the space of but a matter of a few miles, would take the Crossley and its occupants from sea level up to nearly 1,400 feet at Brandywell, the highest point on the road, hard on the eastern flank of Snaefell.

* * *

With some difficulty, rapidly changing gear, Matthew slewed the heavy Crossley round an uphill, right hand, hairpin bend, known appropriately enough as Gooseneck, from which, far below, there could be glimpsed the sea and Queen's Pier, the bend itself marking the limit of the tree line and the beginning of a long stretch of windswept, empty moorland. Then, having crossed over the line of the Snaefell Mountain Railway at The Bungalow, a few miles further on, beneath a gnarled hawthorn, bent almost double by the force of the prevailing winds, close to a metal milepost, at Brandywell, Matthew brought the Crossley to a stand for the second time that morning so that everyone could get out and stretch their legs and admire the wild, open scenery.

While everyone else stayed relatively close to the motor, Matthew saw that Tom, who for the last few miles had seemed unaccountably quiet, had walked off down the road; was standing stock still, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, evidently lost in thought, and gazing intently down the hill.

"What is it, old chap?" asked Matthew, now drawing level.

" **That** ," said Tom.

"What?" asked Matthew, clearly perplexed.

"Don't you ... Can't you hear it?" asked Tom.

"Hear what?" asked Matthew, furrowing his brows, straining his ears to catch whatever it was Tom could hear.

But instead of explaining himself further, Tom merely shook his head, for the sound had ceased. All he could hear now was a faint creaking coming from the branches of the hawthorn and a slight rustle of its leaves.

Beyond him the road was completely empty.

There was nothing to be seen.

So, after all, what he had heard, the roar of an approaching motorbike, had been nothing more than a trick of the wind. And yet, for all that ...

* * *

 **Snaefell, the very same day.**

Hovering hundreds of feet above the rocky outcrop, while it had seen the man far below, the kestrel had paid him scant attention, was intent instead on seeking its own prey. The grey ribbon of the mountain road was still deserted but then, from the direction of Ramsey, Fergal saw the heavy motor climbing the hill and a few moments later pulling to a stop. And, as it did so, something about the man seated next to the driver arrested Fergal's attention. He looked familiar. Reaching for his pair of binoculars, Fergal quickly adjusted the focus of the glasses, trained them on the man clambering out of the passenger seat and, in the very next moment, realised why it was he had looked so damned familiar.

* * *

 **Brandywell, Snaefell Mountain Road, Isle of Man, 19th June 1936.**

Patience is a virtue which is often rewarded.

High on a rocky ledge, the kestrel sat tearing the now bloodied and lifeless body of the rabbit to shreds with its hooked beak and razor sharp talons, while far below him the man adjusted the telescopic sight of his hunting rifle and waited for his own prey.

* * *

 **Rosenberg, Austria, the very same day.**

Of the Crawley women, as Tom and Matthew often laughingly called them, Edith alone could be said to have a sixth sense. After all, back in June 1919, in the aftermath of the bombing at the Shelbourne Hotel, with Tom, stripped to the waist, lying before them all on the settee in the sitting room of Mary's suite, being ministered to by Sybil following the roughing up he had received at the hands of officers of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, it had been Edith and she alone who had realised that Tom and Sybil had met before. Long ere ever he came to Downton as chauffeur to their parents; years ago, when both of them were but children, at the now ruined Skerries House, down in County Cork, across the sea in Ireland.

And, over the years that followed, Edith had experienced several presentments of things which subsequently came to pass; most of them inconsequential, and which Friedrich referred to as her " _déjà vu_ ", laughingly dismissed all of it out of hand.

It was early morning.

Holding young Kurt by the hand, the two of them were standing together, out in the warm morning sunshine, on the stone flagged terrace at Rosenberg. For once, if but for the present, Edith hadn't a care in the world. Forget the political chaos threatening to engulf Austria, she had a husband whom she loved to distraction and who adored her, Kurt had been born healthy, was thriving, and Max was well again and she could dare to hope that all would yet be well.

When it happened this time, she had been pointing out to the little boy the distant, snow capped peaks of the Alps. The sight before them was indeed a joy to behold. The mountains looked magnificent, the sky was bluer than Edith could ever remember it having been, the clouds sailing overhead feather light whispers of white.

Then, in an instant, suddenly everything changed.

It was almost as if a heavy bank of cloud had passed directly in front of the sun, as for one brief instant it seemed to Edith that all the warmth of the day had been drained away, while from somewhere she heard the unmistakable roar of a motorbike.

"Oh, my God! No! Tom!"

 **Author's Note:**

For Tom's abduction in Cork and what came after, see my story _Home Is Where The Heart Is._

Established over a thousand years ago, Tynwald, the parliament of the Isle of Man, is said to be the oldest parliamentary assembly in the world. The meeting on Tynwald Hill takes place annually on 5th July.

Down the many years that it has been run, the route taken by the TT has altered. Some of the locations have changed their names, others have been added, and roads allocated numbers - for example the Snaefell Mountain Road is now the A18. Those given in the story are as they were back in 1936.


	6. Chapter 6

**With Christmas now fast approaching and, here in England, it being, traditionally, the time for a ghost story, the end of this tale is highly seasonal, which is why, I have delayed posting it until now.**

 **Merry Christmas, one and all.**

 **The Irish Chauffeur**

Chapter Six

Kindred Spirits

 **Rosenberg, Austria, 19th June 1936.**

Edith had said it many times before.

That here at Rosenberg, the view from the terrace, towards the Alps, was truly magnificent.

* * *

The photographs which she had shown the family on board the Rome Express, back in the summer of '32, bore witness to that. And, even Mary, who was not one who was known to bestow accolades lightly, after the visit which Matthew, she, and the children had paid to Rosenberg in the summer of the following year, had to concede that the black and white photographs did not do justice, either to the house or to the beauty of its setting. As Matthew and Mary both agreed, while standing on the terrace, sipping cocktails, with Friedrich and Edith, watching the sun setting over the distant Alps, superlatives were rendered redundant by the reality of both. Even if at the time, as Mary was also quick to notice, the light of that same setting sun, made the diamonds in Edith's splendid tiara sparkle and shimmer, serving only to accentuated its undeniable magnificence.

* * *

As for the rest of the family, along with all their brood,Tom and Sybil were expected here at Rosenberg on an extended visit next summer, if both could be persuaded to make time in their busy lives for the long trip from Dublin, by both boat and by train, all the way across Europe, to Vienna. Much to Tom's disappointment, and that of Danny too, Sybil flatly refused to fly, something which, since but scarce a month ago, had now become a reality.

Even so, she would not, said Sybil, in her latest letter to Edith, risk putting all her chicks in one basket. Given the fact that Aer Lingus, which just this month past had begun flights from Baldonnel Airfield southwest of Dublin, across the Irish Sea, over to Whitchurch Airport on the outskirts of Bristol in England, had but one aircraft, which had a seating capacity of six, the analogy had not been lost on Tom. Nor on Edith either, who, despite her own intrepid nature and her undoubted fearlessness when it came to travelling abroad, had been undeniably and uncharacteristically worried by Friedrich and Max flying over to England.

* * *

With Kurt held fast in her arms, hugging the little boy tightly to her, desperate for some kind of reassurance, Edith slowly paced the sun-warmed paving of the stone-flagged terrace; to and fro, to and fro. Darling Tom! What on earth could she possibly do? Send a telegram? There was no time. A telephone call then? That would take longer still. In any case, what could she possibly have said? That she had a vague premonition that something was wrong. Even if his innate good manners would prevent him from saying so,Tom would think she had gone mad. They all would. So the answer to her silent question was pure and simple: nothing. Except wait and pray to God that her feeling of foreboding, of approaching disaster, proved not to be so.

* * *

Here, within sight of the mountains, the air was clear and pure, and all manner of sound carried a long way.

* * *

 **Sefton Hotel, Douglas, Isle of Man, that same morning.**

With the postponed Senior TT very shortly about to get underway from in front of the grandstand over on Glencrutchery Road on the west side of Douglas, here in the lobby of the Sefton Hotel, where the Bransons, the Crawleys and the Schonborns were now standing, impatiently awaiting the arrival of the last member of their party, Danny Branson yawned and stretched, drawing amused looks from both of his uncles.

"And that's the trouble with these Irishmen, for sure!" laughed Matthew, at the same time tapping the side of his nose and with a merry twinkle in his eye, now turning to Friedrich. "Absolutely no stamina whatsoever!"

"What was that, about the Irish and stamina?" asked a lilting voice from somewhere behind them.

All now turned, to see Tom on whom they had been waiting, making his way spritely down the main staircase of the Sefton Hotel, kitted out in full motorbike leathers, including gauntlets, helmet, and goggles, all of which he had purchased from Lewis Ltd. of Great Portland Street, London, and for which he and Sybil had made a special trip up to town the last time the Bransons were over in England, staying at Downton.

"Well, Tom, old chap, you certainly look the part," observed Matthew with a grin.

At the foot of the hotel staircase, Tom made them all a sweeping mock obeisance.

"Why, thank you, milord! I'll take that as a compliment, Matthew; although I'm not entirely sure if that was how it was meant!" Danny and Robert exchanged amused glances. As had been the case up on the summit of Snaefell a couple of days earlier, both of them found themselves enjoying once again the easy banter and camaraderie that often ensued between their fathers. "And, as to Danny being tired, I'll have you know that while all the rest of you were still fast asleep, early this morning, before breakfast, Danny and myself went back over to the grandstand to see some of riders coming back from taking practice laps around the circuit".

And all of which was true enough.

In fact, the roads necessary to the running of the TT had been closed off at three in the morning for those who wanted to undertake practice sessions around the whole or but part of the circuit; with the Falcon Cliff Hotel here in Douglas even offering very early breakfasts. Nonetheless, these early morning practice runs meant that those resident on the island, as well as visitors to it, and who were staying close to the course, owing to the noise from all the exhausts, were all but guaranteed an abrupt and unwelcome end to their night time slumbers.

* * *

 **Glencrutchery Road, Douglas, earlier that same morning.**

Even if it had been a case of having to be _up with the lark_ , while the others were all yet still fast asleep in their beds, Matthew no doubt dreaming of Mary and the delights of a second honeymoon in Scotland, and young Max of piloting the Junckers G. 38 all the way from from Berlin's Tempelhof Airport to Croydon, along with a host of others, both Tom and Danny Branson were to be found in the refreshment tent at the rear of the wooden grandstand on Glencrutchery Road, where mugs of cocoa and coffee, provided by Cadbury's and Dunlop, were on offer.

Both of them long since fascinated by all manner of machines and matters mechanical, for the two Bransons, now standing sipping their piping hot cocoa, this early morning start had been too good an opportunity to miss. Quite what Sybil would have made of it all, was open to question. Probably something along the lines of what she had said to Mrs. Murray, when she met her on Main Street in Blackrock, outside the butcher's, shortly after Tom and Danny had sailed for the Isle of Man: that _boys will be boys._

A short while later, invigorated by their cocoa, out in the damp, grey, misty, early morning air, midst a diaphonous haze of cigarette smoke, petrol, oil, and exhaust fumes, Tom and Danny saw that a number of race officials were already out and about too; busying themselves ensuring that all the necessary paperwork for each of the entries in today's event was in order. In particular, that the payment by each competitor for the exemption registration certificate, costing two shillings and sixpence permitting the use of the motorcycle concerned on the island's roads, had been made; Tom already having produced his documents for inspection and paid his dues yesterday. And among the other race officials, there were the motorcycle mounted Travelling Marshalls, the eyes and ears of the Clerk of Course, appointed to provide him with pre- race information on both road and weather conditions as well as to speed to any incidents occurring out on the thirty seven miles of the Mountain Course.

In a very short time, the two Bransons found themselves rubbing shoulders with several of the other entrants for the Senior TT. Not surprisingly, most of them hailed from Great Britain, such as the likes of George Rowley, Harold Daniell, Jimmy Guthrie, and Freddie Frith. But others came from somewhat further afield: Heiner Fleischmann and Oskar Steinbach, both from Nazi Germany, while Johnny Galway had come all the way from the Southern Hemisphere - from the Union of South Africa. Of all of these, the one man Tom was especially pleased to see was his fellow Irishman, Stanley Woods, who had helped smooth matters for him so as to permit Tom to ride in the Senior TT in the first place.

Then there were the motor mechanics; resplendent in dirty blue and grey overalls and worn, seemingly with pride, indeed almost as a badge of honour, prized as much as were their heavily oil-stained fingers, seeing all manner of last minute adjustments and, in particular, ensuring that petrol tanks which, at the insistence of the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company had to be pumped dry for the crossing over the Irish Sea, were primed and fully filled. There were factory managers, and trade representatives too, dapper, smart, and well groomed, sporting stylish suits with razor sharp creases in their trousers, all of them belonging to one or other of the principal motorcycle firms. Once again most of these were British, such as AJS formerly of Wolverhampton, BSA, Norton, and Veloce, all of Birmingham in the English Midlands, while others such as BMW, DKW, and NSU were from Germany.

There were journalists as well.

Not only from here on the island, from both the Examiner and the Isle of Man Times, but from each side of the Irish Sea, some of whom Tom knew personally, representing a swathe of the British press: the Times, the Telegraph, the Express, and the Sketch. And a clutch of Irish papers too: the Independent, naturally, and the Evening Herald, as well as from the north, the Belfast News Letter and the Irish News. All of them putting aside their political and sectarian differences to report on the TT.

And there was also a handful of foreign correspondents; more particularly, one from across the English Channel, over in Nazi Germany, a reporter accredited to the Vőlkischer Beobachter which, with an undisguised expression of disgust registered upon his face, Tom now explained to Danny was the main Nazi daily newspaper. According to Da, the rag, he would not dignify it with the title of a newspaper, was toadying towards the Führer, Herr Hitler, and peddled whatever claptrap and rubbish it was the Reich Minister of Propaganda, Herr Goebbels, wanted it to publish.

However, of rather more immediate concern to Danny, and it must be said to his great disappointment, was the fact that this year there was no film crew present, as there had been twelve months ago when George Formby's motion picture, _No Limit_ , which Danny and Da had been to see earlier this very year, at the Metropole Cinema on O'Connell Street in Dublin, had been filmed on the Isle of Man by Associated Talking Pictures, and which had used the 1935 TT as its backdrop.

Nonetheless, of all those milling about the grandstand, impatient for the Senior TT to get underway, and of whom there were a very great many indeed, the majority were overwhelmingly of the general public, a goodly number of which, following on from the excitement of the previous year, had arrived on the Isle of Man, not only from the British mainland but from other countries too, the latter hoping that their own riders such as Geiss, Steinbach, and Tenni would do even better than they had done the year before. Even so, the sight of several of those who had come over from Germany wearing Nazi armbands proved extremely unwelcome.

In fact, if the truth be told, there would have been still more spectators here today too, had it not been for the fact that the re-arranged date for the Senior event meant that many of those who had come over from the north west of England to witness it, with only four telephone lines over to the mainland, finding it impossible to re-book their return passages with the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company, had already had to leave the island and sail for home, unable to stay on to see the race.

Now, as Tom and Danny continued to wander about, there was much to be overheard by way of chin wagging, gossip, and the telling of tall tales, the exchange of names and addresses, as well as heated discussions, most of which concerned the performance, or otherwise, of various motorcycles; including the four-cylinder supercharged AJS models, ridden by the likes of Rowley and Daniell and which, despite their high top speeds, lacked acceleration.

Other problems encountered were also the subject of much debate, along with vociferous opinions being expressed on the alterations and improvements introduced this year by several of the manufacturers; not all of which met with universal approval. In the course of their own conversation, Stanley Woods, who was riding a Velocette, had already told Tom all about the new pivoted-fork rear suspension and the oleomatic units for air springing and oil damping developed by Veloce. It seemed too that Norton, whose own entries for this year's TT, had all been paid for by Castrol Oils, had made improvements to both the bores and strokes of its own machines, as well as increased finning for the engines, and introduced larger diameter brakes. But then altered the rear suspension on the works entries of Jimmie Guthrie, John "Crasher" White, and Freddie Firth.

"And kept its single cylinder racers too," said Tom in a quiet aside to Danny as the two of them walked away from having chatted with the Norton team.

* * *

 **Rosenberg, Austria.**

It made no possible sense, for as Edith stood stock still and watched from the terrace, as before, the roar of the approaching motorbike grew ever louder. Yet, strange to relate, once again, on the dusty lane that traversed the meadow beyond the edge of the estate, there was nothing to be seen.

A moment later, and the sound itself had faded away.

* * *

 **Glencrutchery Road, Douglas, Isle of Man.**

A short while later, Danny paused beside a wooden trestle table in order so as to take the opportunity to flick through some old copies of _The_ _Motorcycle_ , _Motor Cycling,_ and _Motor Sport_. As was only to be expected, the articles inside the various issues of the magazines were both many and varied and included club news, details of what had been forthcoming events, along with adverts, and classifieds. There were reports too of past TTs, of the Manx Grand Prix, the Scottish Six Days Trial, and the Ulster Grand Prix. However, fascinating as all of this was to Danny, what was of particular interest to him and which, had Sybil been present to witness what it was her eldest son was looking at, would have horrified her, was singular advice on how to choose, purchase, and license one's first motorbike.

Half turning and seeing Danny so well absorbed, smiling to himself, while yet remaining in clear sight of his son, Tom moved on a short way, thinking of nothing in particular, other than wondering what at this precise moment Sybil herself would be doing. No doubt like themselves, up with the lark, and, in her case, attending to the needs of little Dermot who, now aged all of three, was proving to be just as much of a handful as his brothers and sister had been at that age.

Then, for Tom, there now occurred something, so strange that it defied belief.

About him, the numerous sounds of the TT faded into silence, to be replaced, close at hand, by but one : the unmistakeable throaty roar of a powerful Brougham Superior, the same as he had heard yesterday up on the lonely, windswept mountain road which traversed the high, eastern flank of Snaefell.

* * *

"... and, as you can see, very interesting for sure. Da? Are you all right, Da?" Feeling someone grasp his arm, Tom turned to see Danny standing right beside him with a couple of magazines held in his hand. Both abstracted and bemused, Tom continued to look about him, clearly mystified by something which Danny could not comprehend. Nor, for that matter, could Tom.

"Yes, son, for sure. Didn't you hear it?"  
"Hear what, Da?"

The sound faded away; normality reasserted itself.

"No matter". Tom nodded towards the magazines. "Interesting?"  
"Yes, Da. Like I just said". Danny looked quizzically at his father and then shook his head.

* * *

On the whole, there was a far greater degree of camaraderie than rivalry between the soon-to-be competitors and it was this which made what then happened but a short while after all the more unpleasant and inexplicable.

Much taken with one of the motorbikes being serviced by a couple of mechanics, to be more precise a DKW SB 500A built just last year, while Da contented himself chatting to a journalist from the Isle of Man Examiner, Danny wandered over to take a closer look. He was very well aware that the machines produced at the DKW factory at Chemnitz over in Saxony in Germany, enjoyed an excellent reputation, both for their design and engineering. Having spent some time sizing up the magnificent beast before him, with its twin, two-stroke engine, a top speed of just over seventy one miles an hour, girder fork coil spring front suspension and rigid rear suspension, a petrol tank holding nearly three and a half gallons, expanding drum brakes, electric starter, and twin headlights it was truly a wonderful machine.

Smiling, glancing briefly about him, the younger of the two mechanics, who spoke a little English beckoned to Danny and asked if he would like to sit on the bike, an offer which, Danny couldn't resist. Of course he had sat astride Da's Triumph many times; had, admittedly under supervision, ridden her up and down the rough track that ran behind Idrone Terrace. Not of course that Ma knew. Or, at least that what was Danny believed to be the case: for so far, Sybil had seen no reason to disabuse her eldest boy of his mistaken belief that she knew nothing of those stolen rides up and down on the Triumph behind the terraced house in Blackrock. Sybil knew all about them. Indeed, there was very little, if anything at all, which her menfolk ever did, that ever escaped Sybil's notice for very long.

"Was zur Hölle ist lo?" demanded a guttural voice from behind. "Das ist mein Bruder Motorrad!"

"What the ... " began Danny as he found himself pulled suddenly and unceremoniously backwards from off the seat SB 500A and thereafter deposited none too gently on the ground behind the motor bike. Looking up Danny saw that his assailants, there were two of them, were standing gazing down at him; two fair haired young men in brown shirts, with black ties, black shorts, knee length white socks and brown shoes, each both sporting a red and white armband bearing the black swastika, emblem of the Nazi Party.

"Please I don't want any trouble," said Danny.

"Ah, ein Engländer! guffawed the eldest of the two and spat derisively on the ground.

"What on earth do you two think you playing at?" demanded Tom now arriving post haste on the scene, having seen what had occurred from where he had been standing but had been too late to prevent it happening.

With Tom's arrival, the two young men quickly made themselves scarce.

"Young thugs in uniforms, that's what they are," said Tom through gritted teeth, at the same time helping Danny to his feet; the whole incident reminding him very much, and painfully so, of something similar which had happened on the platform of the Gare Maritime in Calais back in the summer of 1932 and which, on that occasion, had involved not Danny but darling little Bobby.

"Nazis! Mein Gott!" said the young mechanic almost to himself and at the same time shaking his head in evident disbelief as he helped Danny dust himself down. "Meine Herren, ich entschuldige mich. I ..." He paused, seeking the English word for what it was he wanted to say. "I ... apologise ... for ..." He spread his hands expansively and nodded towards the backs of his fellow countrymen. "Please not to think we Germans are all the same".

"No, of course not," said Tom.

"I ... " The young lad fumbled in the pocket of his overalls and pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. ""Please, to take ..." he said offering one to Danny.

"Thank you," said Danny taking one. The other then struck a match.

While Danny stood and inhaled deeply on the now lighted cigarette, Tom said nothing.

Then, having said their goodbyes, they crossed the road and began walking slowly along the pavement in the direction of Douglas.

* * *

"Don't ever let your mother catch you smoking, for sure!" said Tom, once they were out of sight of the young mechanic.

"I only have the odd one Da, for sure".

"Maybe. But you know what your Ma thinks about smoking".

Danny looked suitably chastened. Promptly dropping the cigarette on the pavement, he ground it out with the heel of his shoe.

"And another thing". Tom rested his hands lightly on Danny's shoulders. "Say nothing at all to the others about what happened back there," he said, levelly.

"But Da, shouldn't Uncle Friedrich know that there are ..."

Tom shook his head.  
"Especially not to Uncle Friedrich. And not to young Max either, for sure. Understood?"  
"Understood, Da".

"Now, I think it's time we were heading back to the hotel. According to Uncle Matthew, they do a very fine breakfast".

A moment later, father and son set off, bound for the Sefton Hotel.

* * *

 **Sefton Hotel, Douglas.**

Outside, on the steps on the hotel, and with a feigned show of reluctance on his part, Tom was prevailed upon to pose for a couple of photographs. Taken by Friedrich with his Leica, the first was of Tom alone standing resplendent in his motor bike leathers, and which Matthew, with a wry smile, immediately entitled _The Conquering Hero_. The second was of Tom with Danny standing beside him, who now Matthew observed matched Tom in height. This photograph, when later she saw it, was duly christened by Sybil, _The Branson Boys_.

* * *

The third and final photograph which Friedrich took that particular morning was, in view of what was to come, perhaps the most poignant of all.

Like the others, it captured a fleeting moment in time; in this case, of Danny, Robert, and Max all standing together. A lasting record of what, so far, had proved, and ever would be, so long as they all lived, a deep and abiding friendship. And in due course, not surprisingly, copies of this photograph held pride of place at Downton, at Idrone Terrace, and at Rosenberg.

 _Un pour tous et tous pour un._

"The Three Musketeers".

As always.

And forever.

* * *

Thereafter, albeit not without a slight hiatus, they set off on foot for the grandstand on Glencrutchery Road and the start of the Senior TT.

For initially, when Friedrich had let it be known that this morning, after breakfast was over and they had gone upstairs to their room, Max had experienced some slight stiffness in his left knee, straightaway Matthew had proposed that Friedrich and Max should be driven over to the grandstand in their hired motor. However, young Max was having none of it. Whatever it cost him later, he had no intention, whatsoever, of appearing a weakling in front of his cousins.

"Ich bin Schönborn. Nicht eine ungültige!" he hissed to his father, when the suggestion was made to him that, for his sake, they should both take the motor.

"Das habe ich nicht gesagt. Aber du muss darauf achten. Ihre Mutter sorgt. Ich auch". Friedrich ruffled his son's sandy hair.

Max nodded. The mention of his mother now gave him some slight pause for thought. Of course, he was well aware that darling Mama worried but, as he had just said, first and foremost, he was a Schönborn. **Not** an invalid. He would not be _verweichlichte_. That being so, he would walk, along with the rest of them. Turning back to his two cousins, Max smiled briefly, first at Danny and then at Robert.

"Worauf warten wir? What are we waiting for?" he asked. At which point, not pausing for a reply, and with a disdain worthy of his aristocratic lineage, ignoring the pain from his knee, Max turned smartly on his heel, and set off at a brisk step along the narrow pavement, not bothering to look behind him to see if the others were following. Which, of course, they were.

* * *

As on the previous day, when they had all walked from the Sefton Hotel, northwards along the promenade, towards Derby Castle, the three excited boys preceded their fathers, Matthew and Friedrich on the pavement, while beside them Tom pottered slowly along at the edge of the kerb seated astride his beloved motorcycle.

* * *

However, having heard privately, and in some detail, from Friedrich as to just how parlous Max's state of health had been in recent months, with their brother-in-law's agreement, Matthew and Tom had decided that, given the age they were now, it was high time that both Danny and Robert should be made aware of what might very well happen.

Even so, given the fact that only as recently as last night, when they had all met up in the hotel dining room, with the best of intentions on his part, young Max had done his best to conceal how ill he had been, when informed of the reality of the situation in the privacy of Matthew and Robert's bedroom, both Danny and Robert were aghast. Sitting side by side on Robert's bed, the two boys were utterly appalled.

"Do you mean that Max might ... die?" asked Danny. His voice had sunk almost to a hoarse whisper of disbelief.

Matthew nodded.

"But he can't, father! He can't!" exclaimed Robert.

"I'm very much afraid that, just like all of us, he can," said Tom gently.

"But, not today, not tomorrow. Probably not next week, next month, not this year," observed Matthew softly, trying desperately now to find some way to lessen the blow of what Danny and Robert had been told. Then, having crossed the room from where he was standing next to the window looking out over the promenade, he sat down heavily on the bed next to Robert and placed an arm about his son's shoulders, "But, both of you two are now old enough to be told what the realities are of all of this. And to realise that, given what it is that's wrong with Max, no-one can tell when one of his attacks may prove fatal".

"Just ... just how long ... does he have?" asked Danny, his voice trembling with emotion.

"Son, as Uncle Matthew said, no-one really knows, but your Uncle Friedrich and Aunt Edith have been told that twenty, or thereabouts, would be a good age".

"Does Max know?" asked Robert.

"He knows what it is that's wrong with him, yes. But that he is unlikely to live a normal span of life ..." Matthew shook his head.

"And it's something he mustn't ever know," said Tom.

"Max is very brave, isn't he?" asked Danny.

Tom nodded.

"He is that, for sure," he said softly and with tears starting.

There came a knock at the door.

"That'll be your Uncle Friedrich and Max," said Tom, placing a forefinger to his lips.

"And remember now, the two of you, not a word," said Matthew walking to the door.

The two boys nodded.

Matthew opened the door to find Friedrich and Max standing outside on the landing.

Tom smiled.

"Well, if you'll give me a few moments, I'd better go and change. And talking of changing, Max, young man, you look very smart for sure".

Max grinned.

Doing their best to mask the concern they felt, Danny and Robert smiled at their young cousin.

"Max, you look different, for sure", observed Danny, trying to fathom what it was that had changed.

"His first pair of long trousers," explained Uncle Friedrich.

* * *

Because of what Matthew and Tom had imparted discretely to Danny and to Robert about the state of Max's health, and also owing to the inordinate crowds of people over here on the island for the TT, now as they all set off for the grandstand on Glencrutchery Road, Danny and Rob took matters into their own hands. For when they had caught up with Max through the press of visitors, they managed to contrive matters unobtrusively so to the effect that as they walked, Max was between them thus lessening the chance of him being jostled, pushed, or even worse. Their attentive, caring, considerate kindness did not go unremarked by Friedrich who, turning quickly to Matthew and to Tom, observed quietly that together their eldest sons had grown into a fine pair of young men.

"Max thinks the world of those two, and with very good reason," said Friedrich nodding in the direction of both Danny and Robert. For a moment, both Matthew and Tom were lost for words.

"So, have you decided how you are going to spend all of that lovely prize money!" asked Matthew turning to Tom. Having yet to lower his goggles, Tom grinned.

"It's not a king's ransom you know - one hundred and twenty pounds if I win, eighty if I come second, and seventy for third place. Anyway, aren't you forgetting what it was Edith said, about taking part? I'll settle for that".

"Well, what are you waiting for?" asked Matthew, nodding towards where the other riders were now lining up seated astride their machines, in front of whom there stood several boy scouts holding aloft the flags of all the competing nations, among them, as was only to be expected, the Union Jack.

Contriving a scowl, Tom grumbled good naturedly about having to sit beneath what he saw as the oppressive flag of a foreign power, with Matthew equally good naturedly reminding his Irish brother-in-law of the fact that the Isle of Man was a dependency of the British Crown and not to forget the silk scarf knotted round his throat and which Sybil had sent him, in the colours of Erin.

"Good luck, Da!" This from Danny. "Good luck Uncle Tom!" chorused Robert and Max, as with Matthew and Friedrich the three boys set off to take their own places on the tiered seating of the grandstand.

"Thanks, boys!"

"The very best of luck, old chap!" chuckled Matthew.

"And watch out for the rabbits!" laughed Friedrich.

A moment later, while he manoeuvred the Triumph into position, Tom frowned. There it was again; despite all the noise hereabouts, the same deep, throaty roar as before.

* * *

 **The Senior TT, Isle of Man, 19th June 1936.**

And then, at last, and in glorious sunshine, they were off!

Cheered on by all the others from the wooden seating of the grandstand, Danny, Rob, and Max in their youthful exuberance rising to their feet and yelling at the top of their voices, _Come on Da!, Come on Uncle Tom!,_ along with his fellow competitors, off went Tom like the proverbial rocket, accelerating away from the Start Line along with the very best of them. Not, of course, that he was under any illusions as to his chances. All he wanted to do was to make the most of the opportunity afforded him, acquit himself well, and to his own satisfaction.

Around him, the noise from all the 'bikes was deafening; the fumes noisome. Overtaken almost immediately by Jimmie Guthrie on his Norton, no doubt seeking to avenge his earlier disqualification in the Junior event, Tom hunched over the handlebars and sped on out of Douglas. Down Bray Hill, braking heavily through the S bend at Braddan Bridge, first left and then right, over the river and the railway line, past knots of cheering spectators, men, women, and children, many of them craning forward so as to better glimpse all those taking part.

On through Union Mills, and Crosby, the cottages, houses, trees, walls, fences, lamps, along with road and sign posts, telegraph poles, and advertising hoardings on either side of the route, all soon merging into an extended blur. Heading westwards, Tom soon got into his stride and opened up the throttle, racing ever onwards, bound for Ballacraine Corner, nearly eight miles from the Start. Here, hard by the hotel of the same name, along with all the rest, Tom turned right, heading north, through open countryside and wooded glens, for Ramsey.

* * *

 **Snaefell.**

The discrete enquiries which Fergal had put in train of certain contacts he had among those who had come over from Germany to watch and to take part in the TT had given him the information he required as to the motorbike Branson was riding and under what number. Not that he had any intention of hitting Branson himself; a punctured tyre should achieve the desired result and it was not as if fatalities on the course were unknown; two riders had been killed just last year.

Up here on the barren, rocky slopes of the mountain overlooking the course of the TT, the mist of early morning had cleared and it had every promise of being a beautiful day.

All he had to do now was wait. He had played this game once before and this time he had no intention of being thwarted.

* * *

 **Ramsey.**

Northwards, along the Castletown to Ramsey road, Tom had made excellent time.

After the hump backed bridge at Ballaugh, here at Barregarrow, he sped past a stone built chapel and a red telephone box and roared down the hill, on through a succession of bends, including Ballacrye Corner, almost eighteen miles from where he had started. On along the Sulby Straight, the fastest part of the whole course, over Sulby Bridge, past the Ginger Hall Hotel, climbing up hill. Then, on through the countryside, following a series of bends, along Lezayre Road, and so, at last, into Parliament Square in Ramsey where, the ornate lamp standard in front of the gabled Town Hall, was sandbagged around its base on the side which faced the racing circuit, so as to afford some degree of protection to any rider unfortunate enough to be in collision with it.

And so, out of Ramsey, along Queen's Pier Road, before Tom and the others began the long, twisting climb with several severe very tight bends, including the Ramsey Hairpin and Gooseneck, all the way up to up summit of the course, close to Brandywell, high on the mountain road.

* * *

 **Snaefell Mountain Road, a short while later.**

One moment the weather had been bright and sunny; now, once more, and completely without warning the fog had descended, blotting out the view of the road below. Still no matter. Glancing briefly at his watch, Fergal saw that the race would only just have begun. Plenty of time for the weather to clear. And, sure enough, a short while later, the fog lifted and the sun came out again.

Now, from somewhere, away to the north east, there came the roar of an approaching motorbike. It was far too early for it to be one of the competitors, so it was probably an official with the TT, making some last minute inspection of the course. Of course, over in Germany, such things were far better organised; nothing was left to chance.

Even so, Fergal picked up his binoculars and scanned the ribbon of road. A moment later and he frowned. It was singularly odd. The sound was unmistakeable and yet, the road below him was completely empty. No doubt it was a trick of the wind and what he had heard was the sound of one of the 'bikes beginning its ascent from Ramsey.

* * *

With the race now well under way and at regular intervals with the riders streaming southwards along the road below him in brilliant sunshine, Fergal lay in dense cover and bided his time. The fact that there were but two dozen or so entrants in the Senior TT, made his task infinitely easier and significantly reduced there being a witness to what he had planned.

And, if he was not very much mistaken, here at last was his elusive quarry.

But it was now, with the road below him empty save for Branson that, as Fergal took aim and gently squeezed the trigger of his rifle, suddenly, and seemingly from out of nowhere there came another motorbike and its rider, keeping abreast of Branson and preventing Fergal from having a clear shot at his target.

Fergal grimaced.

So be it.

It was merely a case of waiting.

* * *

Up here, beneath the brooding mass of Snaefell, on this isolated stretch of road, there were far fewer spectators to be seen, and in some places none at all. It was the damnedest thing but, just beyond Brandywell and the summit of the course, reached only after the long climb up from The Bungalow, where the Snaefell Mountain Railway crossed the road, between the thirty second and thirty third mileposts, as he approached Windy Corner, it was now that Tom sensed that there was another motorbike, close behind, just out of his line of vision, and probably intending to overtake.

But strange to relate, it never did. And, when he turned his head and glanced about him, there was nothing to be seen. Both ahead and behind him, the road was completely empty. Yet the feeling persisted until Tom was well past Windy Corner and on the descent, heading at speed back towards Douglas.

* * *

What was even more odd, was that of the five further laps of the course that Tom managed to complete before, much to his chagrin, an oil leak forced him to retire, at precisely the very same point as before, on the approach to Windy Corner, exactly the same thing happened: the feeling that there was another motorbike, close at hand, keeping pace with him, seemingly about to overtake, although it never did.

And, each time when Tom looked about him, whether to the front or behind, the road itself was completely empty, and there was nothing to be seen.

* * *

 **Rosenberg, Austria, that same day.**

Here, out on the terrace, it was as if a great load had been lifted from her shoulders. Suddenly, and for no accountable reason, Edith knew that everything would be all right. So, when a few hours later she received Friedrich's telegram, informing her that both Max and he were fine, as indeed was everyone else, that Tom who, while having had to retire from the race, was equally well, it was merely confirmation of something which Edith herself already knew to be the case,

* * *

 **King Edward VII Pier, Douglas, Isle of Man, 20th June 1936.**

With the TT now over for yet another year, this morning, after breakfast, and to which, once again, Tom more than did justice, with their luggage having been taken on ahead by taxicab, the Bransons, the Crawleys, and the Schönborns, all walked the short distance from the Sefton Hotel down to the Isle of Man Steam Packet pier.

The Triumph having been loaded earlier on board the steamer that was to take both Tom and Danny home to Ireland, with all of their luggage now safely stowed, here on the crowded quayside, thronging with passengers, there came the inevitable parting of the ways, with Matthew and Robert, along with Friedrich and Max, all sailing for Liverpool. And, on the part of the three boys, the farewells which ensued were not without their share of tears.

From Liverpool the Crawleys were to head east, across the Pennines, to Downton, and the Schönborns, south to London and so on to Croydon for the return flight to Berlin, and thence by train, home to Austria, where they were expected in three days time.

But, for his part, while accepting all of their heartfelt congratulations for having done his very best and for a race well run, Tom said nothing to any of them about his odd experiences up there on the barren, bleak side of Snaefell; nor even to Sybil, when both he and Danny had returned home to Blackrock.

* * *

 **Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England May 1937.**

"Darlin', I can't say why. I just know that it's something I have to do, for sure".

Given what he had just told her, Sybil regarded him thoughtfully for a moment; then nodded her head.

"Very well then. How long will you be gone?"  
"A couple of days; no more".

"And you're taking Danny with you?"  
Tom nodded.

"Yes. Before he leaves for Spain".

"Does **he** know the reason?"

Tom shook his head.

"No. And, perhaps it's best I keep it that way, for sure".

* * *

 **Clouds Hill, Dorset, 13th May 1937.**

Seeing two boys on their bicycles, weaving back and forth across the lane, instinctively, Tom braked and slowed. A moment or two later, he brought the rented motor to a stand beside a small cottage.

"But why on earth here?" asked seventeen year old Danny, clearly mystified, as his father proceeded to climb out of the car.

"Do yous know where we are?" asked Tom.

Danny shrugged.

"Dorset, yous said".  
Tom nodded.

"For sure. But what I meant was, where are we **exactly**?"  
"Search me, Da".

"Come, I'll show yous".

"All right". Danny did as his father suggested and, having opened the door, slipped lithely out of the motor.

"Here. Perhaps this will help yous". So saying, Tom took from the inside pocket of his jacket a photograph and handed it to Danny who recognised it instantly as the same one that hung on the wall of Da's workshop back in Blackrock.

Tom tapped the photograph.

"See the cottage?"

Danny nodded. He looked up at the small building beside which they were now standing.

"So, this ... this is where it was taken?"  
Tom nodded.

"Yes. And this is where he lived. Not that we ever met but I had a great deal of time for him, for sure. I still do, although there are those who would seek to denigrate his memory".

"Denigrate?"

"Insult, question what it was that he did. He wrote several letters to the Indy - that was how we first became acquainted - and owned seven ... or was it eight ... Brough Superiors. And he knew a very great deal about motorbikes in general. A gifted writer too. There's a copy of his book, _The Revolt in the Desert_ , in the study at home. I suppose you could say that we were kindred spirits. He was on his way back here, from the military camp down the road, where he was based, when the accident happened. Exactly two years ago today".

"How did it happen? The accident I mean?"

"No-one's quite sure. He was on his motorbike - the one in the photograph, and apparently, he swerved to miss two boys, skylarking about on their bicycles". Tom glanced up the road, towards where, in the distance, the two boys who had passed them but a few moments earlier could still be seen, cycling in the direction of Wareham. "Would yous mind waiting here? There's something I have to do. And on my own".

"For sure, Da, if that's what yous want".

Tom nodded.

"It is, son, for sure".

* * *

A short distance down the road from the cottage, beside a small cairn of stones, Tom stopped and bowed his head. As he did so, from the direction of Bovington Camp, borne on the still, clear morning air, there came faintly to his ears, or so he thought, the familiar roar of a Brough Superior motorbike.

A moment later, and the sound faded away as if it had never been.

So, perhaps, it had been nothing more than his imagination.

Either way, Tom never heard it again.

 **Author's Note:**

For Mary's envy of Edith's tiara, see _The Rome Express_.

Shortly after it began its service to England, Aer Lingus did manage to acquire another aircraft which was able to seat all of ... fourteen passengers.

 _verweichlichte -_ mollycoddled.

For the 1936 Senior TT there were in all but twenty four entrants.

Filmed on location on the Isle of Man in June 1935, and released later that same year _, No Limit_ is a British musical comedy starring George Formby and Florence Desmond. It concerns the exploits of George Shuttleworth (played by Formby) a chimney sweep from Wigan, who harbours dreams of winning the Isle of Man TT. Although British made, in true Hollywood style, at the end of the film, George not only wins the TT, but also the hand of the girl he loves!

Opened in 1922 on the site of the Metropole Hotel, which had been destroyed during the Easter Rising in 1916, the Metropole Cinema in Dublin closed in 1972.

Of the magazines which Danny finds so absorbing, today only _Motor Sport_ is still in publication.

For the incident Tom recalls happening at the Gare Maritime in Calais, see Chapter Eight of _The Rome Express_.

That the Nazis sought to use sporting events such as the 1936 Olympics, let alone the Isle of Man TT as a showcase for their regime is perfectly true. Later on, during the 1939 TT, the last to be held before the outbreak of the Second World War, there were even greater overt displays of Nazi loyalty by the German riders. However, it is fair to say that describing this as the "Nazi TT" with the German riders "dismissed as nothing more than dirty rotten Nazis who spoiled the TT for everyone" is a gross exaggeration, influenced by subsequent events.

Jimmy Guthrie would go on to win the 1936 Senior TT. Sadly, he was killed the following year, in August 1937, while competing in the German motorcycle Grand Prix at Sachsenring.

 _The Revolt in the Desert_ is the abridged version of T. E. Lawrence's _The Seven Pillars of Wisdom_ which tells the same story but in far greater detail.

He did own eight Brough Superiors - the last was still being built when he was killed.

The circumstances surrounding the accident, which cost him his life on a quiet country road in Dorset, in May 1935, are still a matter for speculation. Since then, there have been reports, both of his ghost being seen entering the cottage at Clouds Hill as well as the sound of a motorbike being heard which ceases abruptly before anything is seen, in the vicinity of the spot where he met his death. The most recent of these dates from July 2016.


End file.
